“You'd just abandon the people of Zanoth?” he asked from under a single raised eyebrow.
“Abandon them to what, Paul?” she asked, her voice edged. “To being ruled by undead? To serving immortal parasites that only consume? They're living that now! The only thing we've done is make things worse. The people would have been a lot better off if we'd never started this pointless rebellion.”
“You can't really believe that.”
“Oh, can't I?” she asked with a dark laugh. “Why not? What have we accomplished so far?”
“We killed...”
“One vampire lord and a handful of menials,” she interjected. “So what? We're trying to empty an ocean with a wine glass. It's not going to work. No matter how many we kill, they'll just create more. That's what they do. The more we struggle, the more people they'll kill.”
“They'll kill them one way or the other,” he pointed out.
“Yes, they will!” she snapped. “But, people can plan for the harvests, they can make preparations and say their goodbyes.”
“You can't just look at today,” he asserted. “You have to think about the future.”
“Yes, you do!” she said, raising her voice more than she intended to. “What does the future look like, Paul? How much longer can Thaelen keep the Warriors ahead of the undead? It's only a matter of time before they're caught and slaughtered. Then, what's going to happen? This movement of ours isn't going to get bigger and bigger. It's going to burn itself out. There's nowhere safe to hide and, eventually, we'll all be rounded up and killed.”
“Well, we have to keep trying.”
“No, we don't,” she replied, laying down and rolling over on her side with her back facing him. “But, I'm sure we will. The only consolation is that this can't last much longer. Soon we'll all be dead and the people can get back to their normal lives. I wish we'd have never given them any false hope to begin with.”
Paul was wise enough to remain silent. It was clear that Myra didn't want to be comforted at the moment, and the plain truth was that he didn't have much comfort to offer. When he looked at things objectively, he had to admit she had a point. The long term outlook seemed bleak, to say the least. They were vastly outnumbered, had to stay on the move, were constantly in danger of running out of supplies, and were facing an enemy that had ruled the land for centuries. In addition to all this, there wasn't any obvious way to improve any of these conditions.
Still, where there's life, there's hope. Paul had always believed it was better to struggle to do the right thing and fail, than it was to refuse to fight. He also realized that it was Myra's own compassion that made her feel so bitter about the current situation. At the moment, she clearly believed that they'd only made things worse and that Zanoth would have been better off without their interference. The young man was confident she'd feel differently once the garrison was dead and the city freed. He would wait until then to broach the subject again. She'd have a hard time staying cynical in the face of the grateful cheers of the people. For now, however, he'd just leave her to rest. After all, things usually looked brighter in the morning and she was often in a better mood after a good night's sleep.
With these thoughts in mind, he stretched himself out once again by her side. Hours later, he was awakened by a number of young men who had entered the vault and immediately begun grabbing up weapons and armor before quickly making their way from the chamber.
The moment the sun had risen above the horizon, word had been sent to the Warriors of Dawn throughout the city. In less than half-an-hour, members of the revolutionary band began showing up at The Tottering Tankard asking to be outfitted for the impending attack. Gregory had arranged for one of his lieutenants to oversee this task while he personally escorted the It and his companions to the city square. It was from there that he hoped to initiate their assault.
Each member of the band was provided with a long cloak to cover their weapons and armor, with the exception of Nyssa, who simply made herself invisible. Myra also took the extra precaution of covering her face with her hood, as some of the undead who occupied the city might well recognize her. This was especially true of Baron Dragmor, whom she had met on more than one occasion. As soon as these preparations were complete, they began to make their way toward the heart of the city.
“When do we plan to kick all this off?” Paul whispered, as he and Gregory strode side by side through the crowded streets.
“Kick all this off?”
“It means: get started.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “Sometime around noon. We don't have a firm time in mind because we're not sure when the Baron's special exhibition is meant to start. Obviously, I'd like to stop whatever it is - if we can.”
“I completely agree.”
“Still, people are going to die today one way or another,” Gregory pointed out. “We can't risk making our move too early. We have to get as many of the Warriors armed as we can before we kick all this off.”
“I can see that,” Paul nodded. “But I'm not willing to stand there and watch people die.”
“If we mess this up, that's exactly what you will end up doing. Sometimes the few have to be sacrificed for the many.”
“Let's hope this isn't one of those times.”
“It almost certainly won't be. For one thing, they don't normally start public executions before...”
Their quiet conversation was suddenly interrupted by the resounding ring of a massive bell.
“On the other hand, sometimes they do,” Gregory said, increasing his pace.
“What's that?” Paul asked.
“It's a summons,” Gregory explained. “It's to let us know that the good baron intends to address the people.”
As they moved quickly toward the center of Kafmara, Gregory reached out and caught a man walking past them by the arm.
“If anything happens, have them do their best to block the streets, Tom,” he whispered. “I don't want reinforcements rushing in on us.”
“I'll spread the word, Captain,” he replied with a nod before moving on.
Shortly after this brief pause, the party found themselves in the city square that had been the scene of Myra's recent rescue. Once again, a wide red ribbon was strung around the place of execution, making it clear just how close the public was allowed to approach. A large wooden table and a single magnificent chair had been set in the middle of the cobble paved plaza and a number of undead warriors wielding pikes and halberds wandered through the area to ensure the safety of their lord and the compliance of the crowd.
After the public had been given sufficient time to gather, Baron Dragmor emerged from the palatial two story manor house that sat on the very edge of the square. As the creature slowly made its way toward the table, Paul's eyes involuntarily widened at his first sight of a famine ghast.
Although the monster was clearly over six feet tall, the massive quantity of flabby, bloated, green flesh that covered its prodigious frame made it appear both short and squat. Its limping, waddling stride added to this image the appearance of weakness and infirmity. The Baron's small, beady eyes, which glanced over the crowd, were putrid yellow in color, as were the teeth that were visible behind his wide, condescending smile. What hair the balding lord had was greasy, and black, and reached down to just below his collar.
The scent of rotting meat had filled the square from the moment the monster had entered it, and grew progressively worse as he got continually closer. Paul could clearly see that certain members of the crowd were growing increasingly nauseated with every passing moment. The young man instinctively raised his hand to his mouth as the stench caused his own stomach to begin churning.
If possible, the attire of the undead terror rendered him even more repulsive. Baron Dragmor was dressed in fine silk clothing of red and black and, around his neck, a heavy golden chain was hung. His chest and the top of his stomach, however, were covered with the blood and gore of his former victims. Saliva continually poured from hi
s slightly opened mouth; keeping the upper portions of his filthy attire continually moistened with his thick, rank drool.
Paul felt in his heart of hearts that killing this creature would be a service to the entire universe. He could hardly wait to get the job started. Gregory, however, indicated with a slight shake of his head that the time had not yet come.
“Is it just me,” Darek whispered, looking at Paul with half a smile, “or does all this seem just a little familiar.”
“A little,” the young man agreed. “Of course, last time it was for a rescue.”
“This time, it's for an assassination.”
“I don't know that I'd use the word assassination,” the paladin replied quietly.
“Call it whatever you want,” Darek said, turning his gaze to the undead lord. “Either way, we need to kill that thing.”
“I can't argue with you there...”
As soon as the baron reached the center of the table, he turned to face the crowd.
“Citizens of Kafmara,” he said in a deep booming voice, before pausing to sigh. “How I wish to the gods I could call you my people. But such is not the case, is it? And, why is that? First and foremost, it's because I am not your natural lord. No. Lord Telraen - who protected you, your fathers, and your father's fathers - was recently murdered by a group of ungrateful radicals. And, I'm certainly in no position to take his place, either in your minds or in your hearts.
“But still, I might consider you my people in light of the fact that I serve Lord Grathis who has ruled over this protectorate since time out of mind. But, no. That, too, is denied me. Faithful servants, such as myself, would readily offer up to destruction those responsible for such heinous crimes against the state. You've chosen to shield thieves and murderers who spread fear, dissent, and sedition. And, I can't help but wonder at this.
“Why would you do such things? Why would you support people of this nature? Why would you help them flee from justice? Unless, of course, you share their feelings, believe in their cause, and hope someday to see your rightful lords cast down from on high to wallow in the filth of the grave. If that is the case, and so much I am forced to assume, then you share in their guilt. And, therefore, you must share in their punishment.
“Of course, my heart aches for those of you who are blameless in all this. You, like me, are merely victims of these rebels. It's an unfortunate law of nature that only the guiltless can suffer unjustly. And, so it is that, in the end, only the innocent are ever victimized. This is a truth that cuts me to the quick, but it is a truth nonetheless.
“It seems to be one that you all need an object lesson in. Though it pains me more than I can express, the time has come for you to witness the suffering of innocents.”
Having said this, the baron nodded to one of the undead guards standing nearby. The warrior quickly stepped inside the manor house only to emerge moments later, followed by a number of zombies, who pulled behind them six children. They were bound together by a stout rope and ranged in age from around three to thirteen. As they drew near the table, the cries of their mothers and fathers rent the air as they begged for mercy from the undead lord. The smallest of the children, a golden haired boy, began to cry for his mother, and another of the children, a girl of about ten, picked him up to offer him what comfort she could.
“It is always the innocents that suffer,” the baron shouted above the din. “I long to spare them! Help me save them! Tell me where to find the Warriors of Dawn.”
“We don't know!” a man yelled from the crowd, tears pouring down his face. “Please, my lord, spare my son!”
“It's my deepest wish!” the undead lord cried. “But, how can I unless justice is offered more fitting victims?”
Here the Baron paused, glancing slowly and silently over the crowd.
“No? Very well... Prepare the first course.”
One of the zombies grabbed the oldest child by the shoulder and forced his head down as an ax wielding ghoul lifted his weapon to strike. At that moment, several things happened at once.
“Drop dead!” Paul cried, holding his holy symbol in his outstretched hand.
“Kill the baron!” Myra yelled at the same instant; throwing back her hood and lifting her staff, her eyes focused on the ghast nearest the undead lord.
“Death to the undead!” Gregory shouted, drawing his sword.
A wave of golden light shot out from the paladin, while the will of Myra's opponent crumbled before that of the former lich. The Warriors of Dawn in the crowd readied their weapons and yelled out in unison.
The holy power flowing through Paul incinerated the zombies who held the bound children; burning them instantly away to glittering ash. The would-be executioner gazed at the young man in terror before dropping his weapon and taking flight, screaming about the vengeance of the gods. The rest of the undead who filled the square only screamed with pain as the wave of light enveloped them.
Reinforcements poured from the manor house as skeletal archers took up a position on the second floor terrace and began firing randomly into the crowd below. The Warriors of Dawn and the forces of the baron crashed together in the square; the sounds of screams and clashing weapons blending in the air. Alena and Sarrac fought side by side; cutting down their foes like so much grain as Darek took up a position near Gregory, the pair doing their best to keep their halberd wielding enemies from reaching the unarmed crowd. Nyssa appeared at the head of the now ignored children, took the large rope in her tiny hands, and began quickly leading them from the fray; enveloping any undead who blocked her path in burning flames.
The ghast whose mind Myra had dominated lifted his weapon and charged his former master. Baron Dragmor, however, was more than ready for this assault. He deftly dodged his adversary's first attack before grabbing his opponent by the sword arm with one hand and by the shoulder with the other. Dark red blood poured from the creature's upper arm as the undead lord crushed flesh and bone alike in his unholy grasp. The baron unhinged his jaw and decapitated his adversary with a single bite; swallowing his opponent's head whole before dropping his lifeless body to the ground.
This rather remarkable action attracted Paul's attention and the paladin instantly came to the conclusion that ending the baron's unnatural life had to be his next priority. He jerked Telseir from its scabbard and charged toward his foe. Several undead sought to block his path, but were speedily dispatched and left lying on the cobbles as the young man drew ever nearer his foe.
The moment the pair collided, Paul jammed his blade deep within the famine ghast's bloated gut. The undead horror howled in agony, drew back his left hand and slapped his opponent off his feet. The baron then grabbed Telseir by the hilt, golden flames enveloping his hand and rising from his wound. He drew it from his belly and jammed it down into the table he was still standing beside. This accomplished, he took a single step toward the young man who still lay sprawled on his back.
Before he could take another, however, Alena leapt between the opponents. She kept the creature at bay; lashing out at him time and again, while doing her very best to stay beyond his reach.
“Alena!” Joey yelled, his staff in one hand and his opened spell book in the other. “Stand back! I got this!”
He then lowered his staff toward the baron and began intoning unknown words of power. As his chanting grew more rapid, his entire body was wrapped in electricity. Suddenly, he screamed in pain; collapsing to the ground as random bolts of blue fire shot through the crowd.
After this brief distraction, the baron again turned his attention to the ogress; striking her shield with one hand and then the other, driving her back step by step. Paul crawled to his feet and lifted the holy symbol in his hand.
“Drop dead!” he cried once more, his eyes locked on those of the baron.
Once again, a wave of golden light shot from the paladin but, the undead horror only screamed in rage.
“I have got to get better at that!” Paul yelled above the din.
; “Yes, you do!” Alena agreed, raising her shield to block yet another blow.
While the ogress had the baron distracted, Paul leapt up on the table and ran for his sword. As he did his best to rip it free from its wooden prison, he realized that the blade wasn't just jammed through the top, the baron had actually managed to bury it in one of the table's thick legs. As he pulled with all the strength he had, he silently wondered to himself if even King Arthur could have gotten it out.
Unfortunately for Alena, the baron was more agile than he looked and nearly twice as strong as she was. In addition, all of her companions were occupied in one way or another. As a result, when he finally managed to grab her by the shoulder she couldn't tear herself free and there was no one available to rush to her aid. She involuntarily screamed out in agony as the monster slowly crushed her shoulder.
Paul glanced up at the sound to see the baron unhinging his jaw, preparing to eat the ogress's head whole, as she did her best to pull away from him. Silently, he prayed for help as he did his best to wrench his sword free. Instantly, he felt a surge of power flow through his body. He tore Telseir from the table, dashed along its top, and struck the baron in the neck with all the force he could muster. The monster's head was completely severed by the blow; the massive wound instantly cauterized by the golden flames that leapt along the holy blade.
Having rescued Alena, the young man paused to look over the battlefield. Fortune had smiled on them and the forces of the enemy that filled the square had been utterly defeated. Their broken bodies lay scattered here and there as a few final sword thrusts brought their unholy lives to an end. He was also pleased to see that Joey was slowly climbing to his feet. Whatever had gone wrong with his spell; it didn't seem to have permanently harmed him.
As Alena stood taking deep breaths through her nose, Paul leapt to the ground, took the creature's head by its filthy hair, and climbed back atop the table. He held it up above the crowd in triumph. It suddenly struck him that this would be the perfect moment for someone to make a speech. Maybe even him.
The Fortress of Donmar (The Tales of Zanoth Book 2) Page 11