Thrall

by Steven Shrewsbury

  “No, not really. Return me to my flesh.” The voice came out with eagerness. “Switch me with that bastard General who wears my old skin. Maddox could perform it. He knows how. I can smell necromancy on him. I care not that the general is a necromancer now that the dragon controls him. The general has power, I grant that, but Maddox could do it. If you really ever loved me, you could find me a new body.”

  Gorias was unaffected by the words. “Do I need to remind you just how a soul transfer takes place? It takes the blood and souls of thirteen infants to accomplish this. Thirteen on each end. I sure as hell am not gonna round up twenty-six babies just to put a mad dog back in his body.”

  “But the one who is Tolin has the soul of a dragon in him, and is far more dangerous than me.”

  Gorias looked back in the direction of the bog. “I’ll get to him in time. You, however, don’t deserve to live after killing more than that many babies, plus the thirteen the cult of Wyss took to make you walk again today.”

  “How can you say any of those babies were not worthy of it? What would they have been in life that was better than me? Abandon your hoary customs, Father, and listen to your blood. It is all in the blood and that is all that matters, from one generation to the next. Please do not put faith in silly gods no one else worships anymore.”

  “If one of those babies turned out to be a trollop, she would be better than a miserable sonofabitch like you,” came the uncompromising words of Gorias La Gaul. “The only good thing you ever did was make Maddox, and I’m not so sure about him sometimes.”

  He raised both swords and brought them down, over and over, slashing and twisting, until he vivisected the torso into over a dozen pieces. A dank, moldy smell emanated from the numerous bits. Somewhere hidden in the mixture rested the bones of Wyss, rotten flesh, and the blood of infants. He kicked these parts away, stomping on the head, splattering the gray matter and praying to God his son’s soul was indeed free of the earth at last.

  “All things have their limits, Tolin,” he said to the wind and gazed across the expanse of the stark canyon. “Anything else would be God.” Wearily, he looked around, hands dangling between his knees. “Now how the Hell do I get out of here?”

  *****

  General Tolin La Gaul was true to his word. At daybreak one of his troopers rode out to meet up with the slave caravan bivouacked nearby. The general ate cured ham at sunrise, sitting by the largest of the bonfires fed well to keep leeches at bay. He stared into the dancing flames. Every so often, he let his enormous left hand rest on the tiny oblong box from his saddle. When the soldiers stepped closer to tell him news, he nodded and never spoke.

  As he glanced at the leaders of the caravan of traders stopped near the bog, Captain Karter told Tolin, “The director of the slave convoy says they are lingering mainly because of the coming fight. They anticipate a high body count between us and the forces of the northern barbarians.”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Quite. In the event of stragglers, they would absorb them into their train and sell them to Nosmada at a profit.”

  Tolin laughed at this and said with a contemplative smile, “The depravity of man never ceases to amaze me. They are all meat at Nosmada’s table, one way or another.”

  “Very good, sir,” Karter agreed, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Captain Karter,” Tolin said as he placed his hands on his knees and arose. “You have no family, is that true?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “You are smart. I’m full of twisted feelings and hatred because of family sentiment left in this flesh. Stay unattached to any bloodline. It is better for the mind that way.”

  Though he looked down at his boots, Karter soon raised his head and smiled. “The military is my life, General. It’s all I have. I could care less for children or a woman to control me.”

  They walked toward the three captured with La Gaul. Transactions took place and they were sold to the caravan leader without any great incident. Tolin didn’t regard the young ones for very long.

  “Too bad La Gaul is such a bastard,” Tolin said. “There is naught to be gained from holding these fools hostage in hopes of a valiant rescue. Gorias doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Let them be thralls forever.”

  The three youths, long since stripped of their weapons, money, and mounts, had no choice but to go into slavery. Maddox wouldn’t look at Tolin, but the other two did.

  Greatly frustrated, one of the troopers searched the brush in the morning light. Two more soldiers emerged from the canyon, climbing up long ropes. Among them, Tubal called out, “Our ropes can’t even reach the bottom of the canyon. If that ol’ dog lived through such a fall, he’s packin’ arcane powers from another dimension, I reckon.”

  Lines in his face growing longer, Tolin grumbled, “He doesn’t. I don’t care what the legends say about his dealing with angels.” The general stared into the canyon of Benedikt, asking the men gathering up their ropes, “What troubles you all?”

  Tubal replied, “There should be anotha’ hoss, General. We’re missin’ one from these brats. Three hosses are ‘ere, but where in Satan’s beard is the fourth one? Where’s ol’ La Gaul’s horse?”

  Tolin shook his head. “Damn, damn, damn.” He looked away from the canyon and returned to the encampment. “Knowing La Gaul, the accursed animal is loyal. The man slips through my hands like any fable should, falling from a scroll of parchment like a story.” His open hand tightened into a fist. “Damn him for all time.”

  “We coulda go an’do a search fer the hoss, sir.”

  “No. I have wasted too much time chasing that old man,” Tolin said as he stared at the sky. Our duty lies beyond, getting the weapons from the Foundry of Syn. We must get rid of these young ones and go back to our forces.”

  Tammas looked at the soldiers then to the line of slaves. “Why don’t they just kill us?”

  Tolin mounted up on Maddox’s horse, replete with his own saddle, roll, tiny box. “Why indeed? Can you guess, young pup?”

  “We are worth more alive as blood donors for Nosmada’s grand scheme,” Kayla said with confidence.

  What passed for a grin spread over Tolin’s chilling face when he rode near her. “You comprehend much, dear, for all the good it does you.” He stared at Maddox for a long time then pulled his horse away. Tolin ordered his men, “Barter for trail rations and let us be gone from here.”

  The grubby men from the slave caravan added Maddox, Tammas, and Kayla to their long train and led them away.

  CHAPTER IX

  Rusty Chains

  *

  After climbing out of the canyon far from the bogs, Gorias rested and faced the sunny sky. He drank from his water flask and dug in his cloak for some jerky. Though he took a great many breaths, he still felt the exhaustion in his bones.

  “What a rotten day to be alive,” he said with a deep cough.

  Gorias looked north toward the deserts of Dundayin, and could hear the echoes of what most dismissed as thunder. The warrior felt every year of his long life in his breaths, how protracted his recovery proved at this time.

  He glanced up as he heard the snorting of a horse. “Well, look at that. Things are looking up.” The white horse walked over near him to graze on some greenery near his feet. He grabbed a stirrup, pulled himself up, and yanked down his bedroll. Never did he unravel it, but he laid it in a bunch on the ground. Gorias returned to his backside and exhaled. His heart raced in his chest as he took another drink of water. His thoughts in order, he lay down and wished the day was over.

  That’s when he heard Ezran Gavreel say, “You are consistent, I will hand you that.”

  Gorias pulled the dirk from his belt. He looked hard, but only his horse stood near. For a moment, he thought he saw the outline of the gray man he knew from days of old.

  Letting h
is head fall back to the bedroll, he kept his knife in his hand and said, “I expected to see you today, Ezran.”

  Then he fell asleep. When he opened his eyes, Gorias lay at a darkened place, years ago.

  Ezran Gavreel looked down at him. “It seems every time I see you, you are covered in blood and gore.”

  Gorias rolled over and tried to arise in the dim chamber. He slipped on a mound of guts freshly unraveled from a rather obese man. Dropping his sword, he quickly picked it up. The midsection of the broadsword was jagged and broken off.

  “God dammit.” He looked around the tavern, blinking as blood ran from his scalp. Staggering from the final blow of the fat man…the bartender, that was it. Gorias knew that man had served his last drink.

  “On the contrary,” Ezran said from far above La Gaul. “God bless you.”

  All around the tavern lay corpses of men and fighting women, slashed open either from crotch to sternum or across the belly just below the ribs. On the walls several people hung, nailed upside down. Their heads were removed and their blood drained into large half cut whiskey barrels. Gorias peered up into the high ceiling of the tavern and beheld Ezran. The man cloaked in gray levitated, bearing himself up on silvery, glittering wings.

  “I killed these damned fools,” he said, waving at the disemboweled crowd in the tavern, “because they needed to die. Never has such a group of souls deserved to be separated from their bodies more. I tell you the truth. The folks on the wall, well, the sons of bitches running this place killed them for some ritual before I got in here. If you’re something so damned powerful, you can see I’m telling the truth.”

  “I am Ezran Gavreel,” the floating being said. “You have lost your sword in this fracas.”

  Gorias glanced at the broken blade. “I’ll get another.”

  From behind his back, Ezran’s hands brought out two long, gleaming objects. They glowed like lightning. When they ceased to pulse, the sheen ran akin to steel, but not unlike that of a mirror. Ezran dropped the objects and Gorias instinctively caught them. In his hands for the first time were his twin swords, made with grips that fit his fingers so well it was as if they hugged his very soul.

  “God bless you, Gorias La Gaul.” Ezran smiled and disappeared. “You will need it.”

  No sooner did he have the swords than the doors to the tavern opened. A rather slender version of the ogre, Mitre Stillwell, ran through the doors and swiftly closed them. Gorias helped him with the heavy bolt and went to the window. A company of men followed the ogre, probably a few dozen in number. They wore heavy body armor and carried crossbows.

  “Well thanks for bringing all the fun,” Gorias said to Stillwell.

  Mitre snorted and grabbed a half empty beer from the bar. He downed most of it and tried to get his breath. “This is as good a day as any to die.” He spat out some of the brew, for it was tainted with blood. He gawked at Gorias then at the mug. With a shrug, he took another drink.

  “I reckon, but I think deliverance will come,” Gorias said while studying his two swords.

  The door burst open, showing a flood of fighting men, and Gorias sat up at the edge of the canyon.

  After rubbing his eyes, he watched the sky. The sun had moved and a few hours had passed.

  “Time I was leaving,” he said, climbing to his feet.

  *****

  Nosmada rubbed his forehead and frowned at the fading images in the caldron. Tolin La Gaul grew fainter. The words of Nosmada’s general still echoed in his mind. From their ferocity, Nosmada was shocked they didn’t echo in the chamber as well. His index finger traced the furrows on his forehead. The familiarity of the scars there made his fingers quake.

  Zillian’s hands quivered from eldritch magicks as she lowered her arms over the stone caldron. The ancient woman reached for a cup. Lannon aided her and placed the container in her hand. With great difficulty she drank of it before saying, “La Gaul is harder to kill than a greased serpent. I fear if I cut off his head he would rise again, and not as a leech.”

  “Which La Gaul?” Nosmada said. “Truly, having Tolin in my service leading my armies is a great thing. It’s also a better situation for us that the dragon in his breast was a wyrm-ling. The young dragons aren’t so wise, but still run on instinct.”

  Nosmada smiled “Tolin follows the ways I set out for him and keeps in line. Imagine if he were an elder dragon in the flesh of a man? Such a soul convergence would never work.”

  Zillian chuckled, making her stomach ache. Lannon helped her to stand by placing his arm around her feeble back.

  “I’d have never believe the oldster could elude a force like that.” Lannon swiftly said, “I’m sorry I spoke.”

  Nosmada shrugged it off. “It’s of no matter, really. Soon, we will have enough for the last sacrifice. This business with Wyss is proving to be a costly annoyance.”

  Zillian dipped her fingers in the cup and touched her forehead with the water. “Do you think it will be enough?”

  A look of eerie satisfaction spread over Nosmada’s face. “It’s all about the blood. In the end it will suffice.”

  Lannon helped the mage over to her couch and she collapsed, sucking in air fast.

  Zillian reassured herself with a question. “What more trouble can a feeble old man be, my Lord, no matter what his cunning? He cannot hurt you here.”

  Nosmada nodded and looked at Lannon before he let his focus rest on the wrinkled old woman. “You speak words of truth.” He stared at his right hand. His fingers trembled, and they would not stop shaking.

  *****

  The slave caravan stretched on for a half mile. Horses and carts carried minor articles of value in the rear of the train, but humanity came as the principle trade of those in the billowing robes.

  Yoked together with loose chains linked to leathery collars around their necks, hundreds of people walked in file. Their rhythmic gait happened naturally for those in this snake composed of human flesh. Another set of chains let their feet take strides, but these links were heavy. This way, fleeing would be unlikely, and for a long distance it would be impossible. Their hands linked together from manacles at the wrists. Over time the weight of it all drained the life from these slaves.

  Tammas and Maddox found themselves yoked side by side, but Kayla resided in the rear with other female prisoners. Whenever they turned to look back, one of the mounted guards snapped a long whip near their heads. Once, this action removed the ear lobe of the man next to Tammas, sending droplets of blood across the youth’s face.

  The slave traders were businessmen, plain and simple. Many of them wore baggy clothing that traveled better than most in open spaces. Each man wore a turban cloth tied about his head, save for some of the guards dressed in light armor in case of attack by bandits. They had a wrap of cloth about their throats that easily substituted for a facemask against the dust. These handlers held little toleration for speaking amongst the slaves.

  After noon the caravan rested for a half an hour. Slaves and animals were watered, fed a wafer-like square the guards called “bread,” and they moved on.

  “We’re making terrible time,” Maddox mumbled to Tammas, looking at the men who rode horses up and down the line. His shoulder ached terribly, but he fought off the pain as best he could.

  “I guess we should consider ourselves lucky.” Tammas almost stumbled. “Many caught by foreign armies are extinguished at the end of a rope.”

  “Shut up.”

  Eying the guards, Tammas disobeyed his friend. “There are several of us and so few guards. I only counted a couple dozen. Surely, we could overpower them.”

  “Good that you’re thinking like a warrior. You may have a future in you yet.”

  Tammas managed a frail laugh as he walked in sloppy tempo with the others. “If I am liberated to fight again, I shall take you up on it. I am trying to sing as I go, to m
yself. The words are fleeting, though.”

  One of the lookouts paused and gazed down at the two youths. With defiance, Maddox said, “What, no talking?”

  The guard shrugged. “Talk ‘til you die, slave. I could care less than a damn. Hatch all the plots you want. I care not. Perhaps tonight you will be the one selected to give to the leeches for a joke.”

  Tammas face flushed, but Maddox showed no trepidation. His chin set and teeth were clenched. A strong resemblance to Gorias La Gaul crept into his features.

  They walked for another hour and a half until they reached the base of a gradual hill. One of the guards called down the line. “We better stop them now. They will have an easy time climbing that hill with better rest.”

  Before the group could begin to sit down, Maddox heard a metallic, scraping sound echoing over the hillside. He wasn’t alone in hearing this. Many of the guards called out to each other or cursed at their gods. Soon countless slaves shouted and pointed at the crest of the ridge.

  Maddox patted Tammas on the thigh. “Look there. Deliverance will come.”

  The name that spread amongst the curse words thrown by those in the caravan was Gorias La Gaul.

  On the edge of the distant hill loomed a huge man on horseback. He held up two gleaming swords, crossing them several times before charging forward.

  “It is like a dream, or a song,” Tammas said, blinking to make sure what he beheld was so. “To be saved in such a way!”

  “We aren’t out yet,” Maddox cautioned as many behind them stumbled against their bodies. “Gotta hand it to the old bastard, he knows how to make an entrance.”

  While the slaves buzzed with talk one of the guards laughed. Yet another asked, “Where are his reins? In his teeth?”

  Though Gorias wore his helmet, indeed the visor stayed up to allow the reins in his mouth. There was a slit in the visor, but Gorias wanted them to know who approached.

  Maddox studied the guards who stared dumbfounded at the old man charging them alone. He shot Tammas a look. “Two dozen of these pricks, you say?”