Thrall

by Steven Shrewsbury

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  Steven Shrewsbury

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  Copyright © 2010 by Steven L. Shrewsbury

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be copied or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise, without express written consent of the publisher or author.

  Cover art and illustrations: Matthew Perry

  Cover art and illustrations in this book Copyright © 2010 Matthew Perry & Seventh Star Press, LLC.

  Editor: Louise Bohmer

  Published by Seventh Star Press, LLC.

  ISBN Number 9780983108634

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010939791

  Seventh Star Press

  www.seventhstarpress.com

  info@seventhstarpress.com

  Publisher’s Note:

  Thrall is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are the product of the author’s imagination, used in fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, places, locales, events, etc. is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

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  Foreword

  After the genesis of man, and before the destruction of the Earth by water, there existed a misty realm shrouded from times past. I believe we have forgotten more about history than we have recorded. Journey now to a foreboding place of adventure, evil, and excitement where even gods walked the earth and fables were real.

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  DEDICATION

  This one is for my family

  John August Shrewsbury

  Aaron Kenneth Shrewsbury

  Stacey Lynne Shrewsbury

  Deliverance Will Come

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  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Shana Sidfrids for her various comments that pushed me on to write this. If not for her, I would have finished other books first. Thank you forever.

  Thanks to Louise Bohmer, Mark Boatman, Kent Gowran, Mark Hickerson, Peter Welmerink, Bob Freeman, Angie Hawkes & Christopher Fulbright, Joe & Kay Howe, Amanda DeBord, Stephen Zimmer, Matt Perry, Brady Allen, Mark Shrewsbury Sr, Mark Shrewsbury Jr (the Godson), Amy Shrewsbury, Jim MCleod, Tod Clark, R. Thomas Riley, Bill Gagliani, Cody Goodfellow, Cheryl Lynne Staley, Randy Chandler, Gina Ranalli, Charles Gamlich, Jodi Lee, David Wilbanks, Martel Sardina, Weston Ocshe, Mari Adkins, John & Becca Hay, John Little, Nikki Threat, Scott Colbert, Ginger May, Fred Grimm, Rhonda Wilson, Mark & Jeannie Worthen, Donnis Lovell, Ty Schwamberger, Evyl Ed, Jen O, Alien Motives Bill, Tracy West, DezM, Deb Patterson, Shawn Reeder, Debi Hulbert, Mark Johnson, Nate Kenyon, Kelli Miller, Alex McVey, Kimmi Jo Greenwell, Gregory Hall, Elizabeth Donald, Scott Nicholson, Andrew Wolter, Hank Schwaeble, Sara Harvey, John Hornor, Rex, Kurt (Dathar), Dean Harrison, Alkilyu, Seth, Cat McCinn, Mr. Solow, Gail, Minh, Angel Lesa, Noigeoverlord, Keevah, and Brian Knight (thanks for the coffee).

  Thanks to Brian Keene for the use of his demon book and bad angel names.

  Also, for their advice and encouragement: Norm Partridge, Bryan Smith, Ron Kelly, Steven Saville, Harlan Ellison, James A. Moore and John Skipp.

  Thank you always to my family, Stacey, John, and Aaron.

  Steven

  Rural Central Illinois

  Chapter I

  Tavern Uprising

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  “By the gods, pull the damn sword out,” the man on the floor howled out into the tavern. Although down the bar, Gorias’ ears heard him clear enough. The aged warrior looked over at the figure laying face down on the dirty boards. A man screamed in agony while a halo of patrons surrounded him.

  Gorias took a drink from his tall flagon, pulled his cloak closer, and said to the slender bartender, “The sword isn’t in him, Michael.”

  The barkeep checked the floundering man then pointed to the swinging door. “Close that. Though winter’s gone, but it’s still cold as teats on a celibate outside. Besides, his assailant is long gone.”

  While a plump drunkard shambled over to shut the wooden door, Gorias’ leaned out from the far end of the bar. He made sure his cowl covered his long face before saying, “And yet, he bleeds.”

  To the all assembled in the smoky saloon, it appeared as if a sword lay across the whimpering man’s back. When a rather jaunty, short-haired woman in dark leathers grabbed the sword hilt and winked at the bartender, Michael muttered, “Leave him be, Shavon,” but she never listened. Shavon planted her boot on the long metallic mesh on the floor, meant to provide sturdy footing near the bar, and with a savage jerk, removed the sword away from the man’s tunic.

  Two things became apparent. One, no blacksmith crafted the sword in steel. Two, the drawing away ripped the clothes and flesh from the man. Shavon giggled at this revelation as a few men armed up their fallen comrade.

  Michael remarked to the patrons, “The constables have been summoned.” Though clear to Gorias the barkeep did this to instill calmness in the masses, many still nervously gaped at the bloody man.

  While a few men carried the wounded patron outside, Shavon studied the weapon and said, “It’s made of wood, but with hooks, nails, and glass shards on the underside. Devious.” She took a couple steps and slapped the fake blade onto the wall. The object stuck to a support beam. Shavon walked through the bits of straw matted over the metal mesh before returning to the main hardwood floor of the tavern. Hands to her slender hips, she looked back and admired her work. “A fine decoration, no?”

  Michael sighed, and Gorias peered into his drink as a sense of normalcy returned to the crowded tavern. The bartender muttered, “Who ever heard of a big man wielding a fake weapon?”

  The aged man brooded over his drink and said, “It’s a proto-sword.”

  “A what?”

  “You’re mistaken,” said Gorias, the hood of his over-cloak receding a bit to show his coarse, matured features. “The weapon proved very useful indeed. The small objects inserted in the counterfeit sword did just what the aggressor planned. It caused shock, pain, and ultimately rent the skin off Silas’s back. Then again, he had some help from that sweetheart in leather over there.”

  “Who makes such a thing? It’s a savage weapon…” Michael’s voice trailed off as he ceased to wipe the bar down. “Barbarians? Here in Shynar?” His voice lowered and he scowled. “I know there’re many mercenaries in Khabnur City due to the rumors of war surrounding us, but hell, barbarians? They’re over a thousand miles away.”

  Gorias shrugged and a muffled grinding sound emerged from his cloak. “Zenghaus Mountain is two thousand miles away, to be exact, but yes. That big fellow who ran out came in ill dressed, in his breeches and garnache, which makes me think he stole them. They way I saw him fidget, he probably prefers being naked.”

  The bartender laughed, still speaking so only Gorias could hear him. “Perceptive of you.”

  “My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, kid.”

  Fingers drumming on the bar, Michael said, “I never saw a barbarian run from a fight that easily.” His eyes narrowed at Gorias, taking in his great size. “Certainly a large man for these parts. Didn’t you see him?”

  After a nod, Gorias responded, “Maybe he wasn’t here to fight but to pay attention.”

  “A barbarian spy? That’s a swell jest. I haven’t heard much of the barbarians on the move since the army of Nosmada tangled with them a few years back. Before that it was the old fable of La Gaul slaying the Nephilum in the Zenghaus Mountains.” Michael pointed to
Gorias’ flagon. “You need another one, old timer?”

  “Sure, youngster,” the slouching man agreed, and pushed gold toward the server. While Michael definitely wasn’t a young man, his withered face smiled at the name the ancient brute called him.

  Voices bombarded Gorias as he drank from the full flagon. The drunks paid him little mind as he slumped over his drink, but their conversations rang in his sharp ears.

  “Blood! I’m sick to freakin’ death of hearin’ ‘bout blood all the time. ‘Cause no matter how much damned blood the priests, holy or not, surrender up, it’s never enough to appease the gods or devils.”

  Another voice said, “I heard tell no ‘mount of sacrifices can stop these uprisings of the dead ones. Bugger me, all this necromancy afoot with a bloody war brewing as well makes my ass chew crackers.”

  Shavon shot back, “You besotted idler! They dead arise and drink the blood of any and all takers, then walk like fools to the south.” Her boots clicked on the floor as she spoke. “Even the guards around the Foundry of Syn never have to draw steel to kill a leech. They walk on past. No loss.”

  Michael wrung the bar rag and murmured, “Aside from the idea of barbarians nearing the curtain wall of Khabnur, that leech circumstance is the craziest thing I ever saw, or my name ain’t Michael Galenson, and it is.”

  Gorias shot back, “You want an award, rawboned man? Buy yourself some steak to feed that body of yours, and you might not be deemed food for the risen dead.”

  Michael chuckled in good humor as he pointed at a man in the far corner of the bar. “We get all kinds. You see that one there? The tall man with dark hair, who looks too clean to ever have been dirty? He just comes in here to read parchment every so often. He never drinks.”

  Gorias glanced at the person indicated, and then looked back at his slurry brew. “That’s Ezran Gavreel. He wouldn’t be drinking.”

  “You must know everyone, or have a ready answer for anything, old timer. Is he a spy of some kind as well?”

  Gorias shook his head. “No, not really. Ezran watches a lot though. The bastard never gets any older, either.”

  The talks around them went on.

  “They say there’s a blue dragon afoot in the North-east, screamin’ his lungs out beside the great rivers of Gemini. They say it flounders in the cursed desert of Dundayin by the ruins of Larak.”

  Shavon cursed the speaker. “Javed, you are drunk and dense. A lethal combination, however, not an uncommon vintage.”

  Javed continued, “It’s said the Cult of the Dragon used a fragment of the Daemonolateria in the resurrection of that dreaded creature. I heard tell they are around here, too.”

  Many guffaws echoed and more people told him he was loaded, yet a few agreed with Javed’s words.

  One man across from him slobbered as he spoke. “They say not all the swords in the Foundry of Syn could penetrate the dragon’s flesh.”

  In the far left corner of the saloon sat an enormous persona, twice the size of any man, drinking from an enormous pitcher. At the mention of the Foundry of Syn, the ogre lifted one deformed eyebrow, but kept drinking. Every so often, he inhaled from a hose attached to a tall ceramic tube smoldering at a spot low in its construction.

  A different male voice thundered in the ears of Gorias. “Bah! That’s a damnable fairy tale. Daemonolateria, fah, my sore ass in a sling. Besides, the last of the blue dragons was slain by Gorias La Gaul, damn, must be thirty or forty years ago. I heard he gutted and fed the thing to the folks in the village of Oliverian.”

  Many grumbling voices agreed on this point and the ogre added in a bottomless voice, “That was about when the first of these accursed leeches were spotted, no?”

  Shavon chattered with mirth. “Gorias La Gaul? He’s but a fairy tale, like dragons, as well. It’s tough to accept one man could slaughter a dragon, be he a keen fighter like Gorias La Gaul was supposed to be or not. Think of how silly that is.” She spoke on in strident tones. “Could all the axes they craft in the Foundry of Syn be enough to butcher a giant beast like a dragon? That’s lunacy, seeing the platelet flesh dragons bore, right?” She waved her thin hands in the heavy smoke and pointed at the corner. “You, ogre! Are you not, Mitre, the foreman of the foundry?”

  The massive individual only grumbled, blowing smoke from its nostrils, thus giving a command in the affirmative. Mitre swirled the settlings of his pitcher and demanded more drink.

  Michael motioned for a serving woman to attend the ogre and whispered, “That gal will get the business end of ol’ Mitre Stillwell’s wrath if she prods him enough. Dragons, heh.”

  Gorias closed his eyes, dreamt of the way the ice of the northern lands used to stiffen his beard. His back ached, and he recalled how the cold treated his bones then. He also remembered the sounds of a dragon’s scream, filtering down his ears and into his spine. Motioning for another round from Michael, he noted the short-haired girl in leathers left the ogre alone.

  As he set down another drink, Michael gazed toward the table in the corner opposite Mitre in the crowded mead hall. “Cursed kids these days. They know naught of which they speak.”

  The grizzled drinker gave a fatigued shrug and put the mug to his lips. Before ingestion, Gorias said, “They walked in here wearing blades. I never saw a kid carry a curved sword like that mouthy assassin does.”

  Michael blinked, confused. “Shavon? An assassin? How did you spot such a thing in the dim firelight? Didn’t know you would care for such a matter, old one. Seldom do folk come into the Aragon barroom with such keen senses. Hell, they sure don’t leave with them.”

  “Why do you think I keep my back to the wall here and not to the saloon main floor? That’s why that screaming fool was hauled out of here. He turned his back on the big barbarian he started a fight with.”

  “I thought maybe it was the brace you wear. I see you never take off your backpack and scratch at it under your leather jerkin. I figured you propped yourself up there to rest.”

  Gorias felt the stiff portions of the long bundle and inner brace on his sore back. “Astute of you. Do you want a medal?” He shot a glance at Ezran, who still read. “How in the Hell did you come by the name of Michael?”

  The man rubbed his thin black beard and giggled. “My mama said it was after the Arch-angel.”

  “Huh. I doubt you’re his son. You would be taller.” Gorias gazed back across the smoky tavern and Ezran Gavreel met his stare. The man at the bar returned to his drink.

  Shavon pranced in her tan leather boots and shouted, “You all carry on about La Gaul as if the children of demons didn’t invent him. They do that to bestow false hope on this besotted realm.” She slammed her fist down on the table to gain the complete attention desired. “If Gorias lived, wouldn’t he be fighting the resurrected dead men of Nosmada, or offering his services to the local tribal kings? They’re out there gathering up every mercenary they can in fear of Nosmada’s army trekking past Khabnur. These chieftains, they have secret plans, and lives they need silenced in their schemes. They never sent out word for an old legend, they sent for me.”

  Gorias eyed Michael, half smiling, and his server whispered, “That’s Shavon from Politi. She has been through here before, but you said she was an assassin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Silence is not her strong suit,” Gorias said. “But I can see by the embroidery of her boot tops that she attained them afar off, not on this continent. Aside from that and the way she moves, Shavon smells of amber hash. I noticed it when I walked past her. All the opiates that ogre is inhaling cannot hide the scent of the amber lilies of the Caliph of Damavand. He’s the father of an assassin’s cult. That mouthy gal reeks of it. That’s how they pay their trainees--keep them plied at first.”

  Stunned at this revelation, Michael said, “Damavand isn’t that far off, but Hell, that’s
wild. Do you think she got that curved blade in the East?”

  Gorias frowned. “I hear in the underground factory at Syn they can make a mock up of any weapon. She doesn’t look road rough enough to have traveled that far. Her gait, her complexion, all too fresh.”

  Mitre Stillwell again grumbled, but only to motion for more drink. From under his table scurried a tiny man, smaller than a dwarf, but dressed in the same fashion as Stillwell. The small man adjusted his loose brais pants, re-lit the bowl of the long tube, and ran to the bar.

  Michael drafted Stillwell a drink. “From what Shavon declares openly, she’s here at the request of the local magistrate, Lira Rhan. There’s some devilry afoot with a group of young cultists. Rumor is the local youths pray to the images of Nosmada, dark Son of Man from—”

  “I know who Nosmada is,” Gorias snapped, his gaze on the ogre, then to Ezran, and then back to the bar. The scurrying servant returned to Stillwell with the pitcher. After adjusting the rather feminine barbette on his tiny head, the lackey vanished under Mitre’s table.

  Shavon threw up her arms and clucked. “I heard the tales of Gorias La Gaul from my youth. His two swords and such moves.” She mocked a man fighting with two blades, “I knew them from my cradle on. They are stories, nonetheless, from a forgotten age, like lies told of one God when we know there are thousands.”

  The man across the table from her shot back, “You should mind your tongue, girl. Show more respect. Gorias La Gaul came from North of here—”

  Shavon drew out a dirk and stabbed it in the table near the hand of the man who shouted at her. “I accept no quarter from a man who insults me, Arius.” She gripped the edges of the table with both hands. “If you can grab it before me, you can have my self for the night.”

  The entire tavern quieted and turned to face her. Gorias winced as he straightened up. Even Ezran took time from his reading to look over at Arius facing Shavon. Michael glanced at Gorias when he stood up straight and towered over the room.

  Across from Shavon, the patron Arius shook off the cling of his grimy clothes and grinned. He removed his woolen cap and grabbed the sides of the table. Arius licked his lips, and Shavon’s eyes glowed by the flames of the hearth.