Tandy watched the trail the fleeing people had taken, frowning slightly.
There was… there was something wrong here.
Wastelanders didn’t run.
Well, no. That wasn’t true. They ran, just so long as it was towards you.
They wouldn’t run away like this. Which meant something very, very bad was about to happen.
The cavalry surged forward anyway, eager to run down the unarmed enemy. One soldier paused for a moment before moving, perhaps coming to a similar conclusion as Tandy about the likely consequences of following the Wastelanders. A silent battle was waged in the woman’s head and she remained where she was, looking uncertain. She obviously knew what was about to happen. Tandy could see it on her face. But orders— and the consequences of disobeying them— eventually trumped intelligence, and the young woman obediently spurred her horse on. A moment later, her short dark hair was blowing in the wind as she disappeared around the corner with the other soldiers.
Tandy raised her hand amid the chaos as the horses galloped by. “I think…” She tried to get their attention, but they were ignoring her. Everyone ignored Tandy. Always had. She was used to it. It wasn’t terribly wise of them in this instance, however. “I say, I think what they’re doing is…”
“Continue searching the surrounding area!” Hamtramck commanded over her words, ordering the foot soldiers forward. “We need to…”
The sound of muffled screams and the clash of metal filled the village.
A moment later, a single now rider-less cavalry horse tore out of one of the narrow canyons, fleeing some unseen horror.
“They’re warriors…” Tandy said softly, mostly to herself because no one was listening and all of this felt like a dream. “It’s… it’s a trap. This whole thing…”
The village fell silent. Not the sound of horses, not the sound of fighting, not the sound of retreat.
Nothing.
Even Hamtramck began to recognize that something was desperately wrong now. He slowly turned towards the canyon, looking confused.
A huge figure appeared at the top of the path, wearing an animal skull on his head. The pointy antlers of some kind of elk combined with the sharp teeth of a nasty predator. It covered his face and gave the man a nightmarish form; some hellish beast brought forth from the underworld to punish Galland for its sins.
The Wasteland Butcher was here.
The man needed no introduction. All of the children in Tandy’s classes had delighted in spreading fables and stories about him. His hideous cruelty which doomed the innocent. His feats of strength and savagery in battle against the civilized kingdoms. The horrific and unspeakable things he supposedly did to captured women from good families. He terrified Galland, serving as the ultimate “other” against which everyone in the kingdom needed to struggle. Their violent and ruthless nightmare, treading upon golden thrones and leaving a wake of crumpled mutilated bodies behind him, friend and foe alike.
He was the thing which came in the night if they didn’t behave themselves and obey their leaders without question.
According to legend, he hated the civilized world as only a Wastelander could hate something. A dark and all-consuming wrathful fire, which burned the edges of his barbaric soul.
Tandy had thought that was just being overdramatic. But seeing The Wasteland Butcher in person… she could absolutely understand it. If anything, the legends had been understated.
The man’s heavily muscled chest was bare, exposing a collection of symbols which were painted on his skin, most of which she didn’t recognize. He seemed as big and as hard as the mountain behind him, blocking their way and preparing his retribution.
Tandy’s mouth went dry and she started to tremble, recognizing that none of the Gallanders had any chance against such a man.
As far as she knew, he’d never been defeated in battle.
He was going to kill them all.
Every. Single. One.
He held up his war hammer, a huge mallet of ancient-looking steel. Instantly, unseen men began to whoop and chant from around the Gallanders, until the entire makeshift settlement reverberated with the sound, seemingly coming from all directions at once.
“’All or nothing.’” She translated the war cries to no one in particular, feeling her face grow pale in terror. She took a shaky step away from the shrieking barbarians as they worked themselves up into a manic frenzy, feeling like her legs were jelly. “All or nothing. All or nothing.” She swallowed nervously, eyes wide. “…All or… nothing…”
The Wastelanders charged into the village like a rockslide, killing the soldiers by the score before the men could even move. The cheap and ill-fitting armor worn by the untrained Gallanders wasn’t suited for close quarters, quick movements, loose footing, or the heavy weapons of their opponents. Once they were on the ground, the Wastelanders made short work of them, like wild starving dogs turned loose on caged poultry.
It was pure slaughter.
She swallowed again, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.
The Wastelanders had set up a fake village on advantageous terrain to attract their enemy, drawn the cavalry away into a narrow canyon to isolate and eliminate it, then circled around to attack the unsuspecting and now undefended main Galland force from several directions at once.
It was a beautiful plan.
Flawlessly executed.
On some level, she truly respected the military strategy and daring it took, particularly since the region wasn’t exactly known for having tactics other than simply “SMASH! YOU DIE NOW!”
But on a more personal level, she was too frightened to do much more than gape in blind panic at the soldiers being butchered around her.
She began to hyperventilate.
“You think you can stop our righteous cause!?!” Hamtramck bellowed at the attacking Wastelanders. “That the people of Galland will just stand by while you have everything we want! You don’t deserve it! It’s ours!”
The Wasteland Butcher stalked towards the man like a force of nature, the carnage taking place around him seemed to be but the set dressing to his arrival; a bloody offering laid before a beast in tribute.
Hamtramck raised his sword. “Come on, you ugly…”
The Butcher swung his war hammer, without breaking stride.
Hamtramck moved his own blade to block the strike, but the sheer overwhelming power of the Butcher caused the blow to sail right through the man’s defenses and connect anyway. The heavy Wastelandi weapon crashed into Hamtramck like he were a fly, impacting his sword and driving the man’s own blade into his face. The force sent him tumbling end over end across the street, until he smashed into a boulder with a wet squishing sound. He fell to the dirt and didn’t move, his own sword buried deeply in his flatted skull.
Tandy continued gasping for breath, trying to think of something she could do to escape or survive. Rationally, she knew she should do something, but she couldn’t think of what.
Another Galland soldier rushed forward, swinging his sword at The Wasteland chieftain. This man had far more skill with a blade than Hamtramck did, but it didn’t matter. The Butcher blocked the series of strikes with the handle of his long hammer, pivoted to avoid a lunging attack, then continued the motion to spin around and crush the man’s skull with his hammer from the side. The soldier’s body flew several feet, impacting a Galland officer, who toppled to the ground. The fallen officer was summarily dispatched by the Wastelander’s weapon too. The Butcher strode over the corpses of the men with the same amount of ceremony as someone would step over a small puddle in the road.
He was almost to her now and Tandy recognized that there was nowhere she could run, even if she were physically able.
The Wasteland Butcher paused momentarily to look down at her, his horrifying skull-head tilting to the side, as if in confusion.
Tandy couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but gasp for breath and tremble in sheer abject terror as sh
e gaped up at him.
Tandrea, formally the Head Chair of Foreign Language for Galland’s Academy of Learning, did not belong here. Not at all.
Chapter Two:
The Emerald in the Salt
“That one doesn’t belong.” Tzadok, The Wasteland Butcher, remarked to his uncle.
“Which one is that?” His uncle Kobb, The Thirty-Two Hundred, asked. He sounded like he was barely paying attention. Battle bored the man and he frequently got distracted by other things. Most of which were wastes of time in Tzadok’s opinion. Correction: All of which, were wastes of time.
It was a source of never-ending frustration for Tzadok.
The Wasteland was not a place where a man could afford to get distracted. Not if he wanted to remain among the living.
Slaying. That’s what you needed to focus on. At all times. That’s what kept you alive. But Kobb just couldn’t understand that for some reason.
“That one.” Tzadok pointed to the green girl at the end of the row of prisoners, annoyed that he even needed to specify the woman in question for his uncle, since it was patently obvious. A blind man could have instantly spotted her. Even a dead one. Already in the ground. Face down. “She’s not a fighter. She’s not even of the same clan as these dogs.” He drummed his fingers on one of the boulders in thought, his keen Wastelandi eyes moving over the woman, searching for an explanation. “No… something’s wrong with that one. She doesn’t fit.”
“I didn’t even know that women came in green.” Xiphos, the Despoiler, agreed from beside Kobb. He took on a thoughtful expression. “…I wonder what other colors they come in?”
“Could she be a pixie? Somehow still alive?” Tzadok wondered aloud. “They were strange colors, right? Could make men… think things?” Pixies reportedly looked like sex itself and were the most gifted lovers and courtesans in the world. Men had gladly paid sacks full of gold and gemstones, just for the chance to look at one.
That would certainly explain this woman.
“No, they didn’t come in green.” Kobb reported with confidence, then turned to look at the woman in question. “Hmmm…” He made a sound like he was considering the matter. “Her decorations distinguish her as a leader of men. They’re symbols of respect and status among the Brightlighters. She must have killed many men to obtain such honors.”
“That girl is not a warrior, Uncle.” Tzadok told him with complete certainty.
“Fine. Don’t believe me.” Kobb went back to searching the base of the mountain for interesting flowers and plants. His uncle was constantly looking for new specimens to add to his garden, it was his only hobby and the only thing he ever seemed interested in. These days, he spent more time with his damned flowers than he did with people. It was another constant source of irritation for Tzadok. But, to be fair, most everything in the world irritated Tzadok. Kobb’s flowers were just one item on a list which could go on forever. Tzadok’s life was characterized by fury, hatred, and disappointment… and not much else. “I’ve only lived twice as long as you and have seen the world. What do I know?”
Tzadok rolled his eyes. His uncle had spent years traveling around the world and he habitually used that fact in a bid to win debates. It was as close to being a celebrity as you came in The Wasteland though, and Tzadok had spent his entire life hearing the same dozen stories of the man’s exploits, which somehow became more astonishing each time they were told. Personally, he thought people were just making up the tales. The most exciting thing he’d ever seen the man do was sneeze.
Tzadok shook his head in confusion and growing suspicion. “What is she doing here?”
“If I had to guess?” Kobb carefully pocketed several seeds he’d scavenged from the underbrush, bowing his head in humble thanks to their creator. “I would say she’s about to be mounted against her will by Hawser, of the Coastal People." Kobb frowned slightly. “I would have been quite happy to see that man’s line die with him.” He shrugged. “But children are always a blessing. How else could nature correct its mistakes?”
Tzadok continued scowling, if anything, becoming even unhappier about the scene playing out before him. One more irritation was added to his endless list of things which pissed him off.
The idea of Hawser and the green woman was filling him with irrational fury. Which was... odd.
Not the anger part, obviously. It was Tzadok’s primary emotion most days. His temper was legendary in the kingdom.
Tzadok scared people. He always had.
He was big and angry and he could slay anyone in The Wasteland if they annoyed him. And his people knew it. They knew it all too well.
They were right to be afraid of him. Tzadok was certainly scared of himself most of the time. He felt like he was always fighting for control and he lived in constant fear that he’d snap and do something utterly unforgivable to someone. Well… someone who didn’t deserve it anyway. He’d done plenty of unforgivable things to people over the years, but they’d all been feeble shit-bags, so who cared. Tzadok didn’t waste his time feeling sorry for weaker men and their doomed ambitions. But sometimes, he was worried that that same barely constrained fury would be unleashed on the rare person who didn’t deserve it.
It was one of the reasons why he avoided people whenever possible. Well… that and the fact that people pissed him off.
Especially stupid ones. Which was basically all of them.
This battle had gone beautifully, however. The intruders were cut down before they even reached The Great Nothing. Typically, he would have simply let them die in that endless expanse of salt rather than engaging them in open battle, but his men were growing fat and restless. Men who had gone too long without killing could not be trusted, as they’d start to see opportunities for it closer to home. Bored men easily became absorbed enemies. Besides, he didn’t like leaving the Coastal People alone for too long or giving them too much experience with fighting on their own.
He didn’t trust them.
Issues with the Coastal People constituted several dozen entries on his internal: “Reasons Why I Fucking Hate Everyone” list. He could fill up entire chapters with the stupid things those no-account dog-fucks had done. And they’d only gotten worse in recent years, particularly since many of them had embraced that stupid foreign religion. Their power was growing and they knew it. They didn’t want to listen when Tzadok spoke anymore.
Tzadok was not a beloved leader, even in the best of circumstances. He was constantly looked at in anger and hate. Fear. Envy. Disgust. If he gave them a choice, no one would listen to him. Not that he blamed them for that. Because Tzadok had long ago stopped giving them a choice.
His uncle tried to clear him a path and keep the clans in line, but he’d heard the angry voices all the same. His entire life. Telling him that his family was mad and bent on power. That he couldn’t compare to his mother in terms of leadership or strength. That he didn’t deserve what he had. That he was just a violent dishonorable killer without a thought in his empty head. And that he’d never have what he wanted because he wouldn’t survive the War of Gold and Silver.
He wasn’t strong enough and he didn’t belong as Lord of Salt.
The outside world was coming for The Wasteland. A war for survival. And his homeland was more interested in fighting itself than outsiders at the moment.
Beneath its chaotic surface, The Wasteland and the surrounding areas were actually held together by a carefully balanced system of treaties, tradition, and honor. Things were done a certain way, but their alliance was always on the verge of shattering. It was a land of powerful people and big ambitions. The problem was that Tzadok was in charge of ensuring that the various clans remained united against their enemies and didn’t fight each other instead. Which was easier said than done most of the time, particularly since the other Wastelanders didn’t like or trust him. His own clan, the Saltmen, listened to him because they were used to it and because Kobb was their unquestioned moral authority. And, yes, they also listened because t
hey were too afraid of Tzadok to mount much of a complaint. But the Saltmen were the smallest of the clans. All but wiped out during his mother’s wars. And the other clans resented his very presence. Resented him.
Tzadok was supposed to be dead.
Every moment of every day, Tzadok was one step away from an angry mob of Wastelanders appearing to nail him to the Grave Tree or burn him to ash. To punish him for his mother’s ambition and his uncle’s arrogance. To punish Tzadok for still being alive.
And Tzadok never forgot that.
Ever.
As such, when a foreign army appeared on his borders, Tzadok was forced into action. He couldn’t appear weak in front of his detractors, nor could he allow them the honor of victory on their own. That would embolden them and invite them to plot against him all the more.
Honor—and his own survival—demanded that Tzadok make these bungling foreign demons an example. He needed to show both the invaders and the other clans what happened to people who sought to take what was his. He needed to demonstrate his power and the distain he held for all who opposed him.
Those who stood against The Lord of Salt would die screaming, like a piglet tossed into the flames.
It was them or Tzadok. Every second of every day.
All or nothing.
He had not been expecting to find this girl though. And Tzadok did not like unexpected things. He had too many people depending on him. Trusting that he would make the right decisions and keep them alive. And there were far more people waiting for him to slip up and make a mistake so that they could seize his power and destroy him.
No.
This woman was… wrong. She didn’t fit into whatever this foolish invasion was. She wasn’t part of this army, no matter what his uncle said. She was… something else.
Tzadok’s people didn’t take anyone with them who couldn’t fight. If you couldn’t fight, you wouldn’t live. It was a basic fact that everyone accepted. That was simply the way the world was.
Captive of a Fairytale Barbarian Page 3