Thrall

by Steven Shrewsbury

  Brock watched him remove his rain slicker and motioned for him to sit down. “Ya’ve seen better days, old one.”

  “No one lives forever.” Gorias hesitated. “I better just stand if it is all right with you. Can’t believe you brought such a force this far south of your homelands. Must be ten thousand or more of you all.”

  “Heh, or more indeed. If I were a slave to numbers, I’d be chained up in a school of learning, unable to breathe the air of freedom. We go as we must, like on this venture for goods and to gain the power of the foundry’s weapons. Life must be adventure, not sitting on yer ass talking about it all. No use leaving the women or children behind, either.”

  “No argument from me on that one.”

  “So why in the Hell are ya around here ‘zactly?” Brock spoke with forwardness. “We heard the perfumed chief in Khabnur tried to contract ya to lead the guards and mercenaries.”

  “The story I tell them all is that I’m here for my grandson. And I was going to visit him before I moved on. Then, I got caught up in all of this nonsense.”

  Brock smirked. “Yes, ever the family man.”

  “You’re hot dung yourself, barbarian.”

  “Ya call me that like it’s supposed to insult me.” Both men laughed and Brock said, “I know yer words are educated about the ways of life. Only a man with stones would talk crap with me in such a way. Tell me why ya are really here.”

  Gorias’ gaze wandered beyond the village, to the north. Brock looked too, as if he would see what Gorias focused on. The air echoed with hot thunder, yet hidden in the eldritch sound dwelt another tone. It ran low, monotone, almost like a man laughing under water.

  “A great malevolence has come out of the desert, again. Just when you think a job is over, some ogre with afterlife envy goes and screws up things.”

  Brock nodded. “We’ve heard the bellow of the dragon. A few of the patrols claim to have seen it in the distance. If ya listen long enough one can hear the rhythm of its nonsense. I think it’s singing.”

  “It isn’t exactly a dragon. What’s left of one, with the soul of a human in its chest.”

  Brock’s hearty laughter rolled as did chuckles from the camp. “How’s that possible? Perhaps a demon or dragon could squeeze into the body of a man, for a season, but how could a man do likewise? It’d be like trying to swim the ocean. I think any human carting around a dragon would explode in time.”

  “You’d think.” Gorias took a drink of the stale beer offered to him and nodded. “Damn this is freakin’ terrible.” He drank some more. “Yes, I wager that would be a bitch. If the human soul were that of a real maniac, my, wouldn’t that be a bad thing?”

  Brock gestured at Oliverian. “Ya know what happened, of course?”

  Gorias nodded. “I knew you would as well.”

  “Even my hardest warriors flinched at such a reality.”

  Kayla looked from face to face, but said nothing. Maddox, however, wasn’t fettered to their rules and spoke up. “What is it? Are you saying the dragon, the Draco-lich, ate everyone in the village?”

  Gorias sighed. “We never said that, did we?”

  “Not I!” the barbarian chief said slyly, glancing at Kayla.

  Frustrated, Maddox put out, “What are you two playing at?”

  The old warrior said to his grandson, “You know how I say there are worse things than dying? Gird up your necromancer guts and listen to me. If indeed a body is raided from the dead, any body, be it Carlato Wyss or a dragon, what’s needed?”

  “Blood and flesh, if there’s no body to be bestowed into,” Maddox said. “Like Wyss in the bog. He absorbed his own worshipers. There was a skeleton but no warm flesh for it.”

  Brock drank heavily as children at play ran past. “That grandson, he’s a brilliant one.”

  As Maddox frowned at Brock, Gorias said, “The Cult of the Dragon isn’t as stupid as the Cult of Wyss. In theory they aren’t anyway. They would have plenty of flesh for their arisen dragon or a great deal nearby.”

  Tammas put his hand on his stomach and he almost wretched. “You mean they sacrificed the entire village?”

  “Not as so many grisly bits, virgin, but yes, in a way,” Brock said. “They never trussed up hundreds of bodies for the dragon to suck into dry husks. But I’d guess that once the Draco-lich was up and about, it went to Oliverian and indulged.”

  “That’s terrible,” Tammas said.

  The nicest jeer he received was from one of the children that said to him, “That’s life.”

  “Husks,” Kayla said. “If the dragon would consume the flesh to re-create itself, then why did you say it like that? Do they indeed leave the skin of the people behind?”

  Brock shrugged, but Gorias said, “Yes. I’ve seen this before, believe it or not. They turn a body inside out like a man eating a lobster and leaving the shell. It’s not as tidy, however.”

  “Why don’t they consume the skin?” Kayla wondered, looking to the sky as the clouds lightened.

  “By Wodan, why do ya talk so much?”

  “Human skin has other uses,” Gorias pointed out. “Plus, that’s the advantage I…we…will have here. This Draco-Lich will not be in a full body of a dragon. It has been dead for over a century, thus there’ll be little but bones or a few scales left over. The body it re-constitutes itself with will be made of human flesh, thus more vulnerable than any dragon I faced in the past.” Gorias gripped Maddox’s shoulders.

  “What?” Maddox said to the old man, whose face practically glowed. “You plan to slay it, don’t you?”

  “You cannot make a dragon your pet. An idea…a plan has came unto me.”

  “How could I believe in any god who would allow such a thing to happen to good people?” Kayla said.

  “Stop it, dammit!” Gorias snapped. “I got an answer for you how you can believe in such a God—Don’t if you are so inclined. I’m sure it’ll break his fucking heart. He has bigger problems than you. Besides, it isn’t God you should be angry with for what happened to Oliverian. It’s quite the opposite.”

  Brock persisted, “Why do ya care about the dragon, La Gaul? Ride off into the sunset, take the little gal with ya and let us all kill ourselves. What’s it that makes ya care about a dragon?”

  “The Draco-Lich isn’t about sucking up villages. That isn’t his job or intent. He has a worse mission--one that will cost more lives than a few armies clashing together. You know of what evil Stillwell may be plotting in his private dealings?”

  The barbarian chief shrugged. “Who cares? He’s a damned ogre. Who can trust him? He must die.”

  “He’s a half bugbear mutt, but you cannot trust those bastards, either.”

  Tammas said, “Yet you planned on getting weapons from him before Tolin did!”

  “Ya don’t lie,” Brock agreed. “Yet yer wrong in yer assumption that we planned on dealing with a damn ogre, or whatever ya say he is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Brock grinned a smile of jagged, dim teeth. “Oh, we sent our emissaries and showed Mitre much gold, but do ya think we’re gonna step up and do competing cash deals with the likes of those serving Nosmada? We plan to take Mitre’s supply of weapons, all right, virgin child.”

  “But the Foundry is a fortress!” Tammas said. “There is no way to invade it from above with an army such as yours.”

  Brock looked at Gorias. “Yer virgin bard is bright as well. Tell him to sing me the one about the Way Worn Traveler. Damn, that one makes my blood rush on.”

  “You savage,” Tammas said bitterly. “You take me for a fool!”

  “Because ya insist on actin’ the role, ya pussy. Indeed, we’ll send a force to the foundry, but not up to the front gate. Ya take me for a fool, puppy with an untouched wanker? Stillwell doesn’t care who in this world wins in this fight between Nosm
ada’s men and us, or if all of his workers die. But do ya think his fat ass will die in the Foundry? What do ya think that bastard will do if there’s an attack?”

  “Escape?” Kayla said.

  Brock winked at Gorias. “How much for the sassy little bitch? She would be an excellent breeder. She isn’t pretty in the conventional sense, but after a few children, her hips will widen enough to really be a fine woman.”

  Kayla tried not to make a face, but Gorias said, “The price is too high, fella. I would guess Stillwell has an escape route somewhere and there has gotta be a vent for the air not connected to the bellows or sanitation.”

  Brock nodded, a sinister grin on his ugly face. “We know where it is. Oh, it’s full of excrement, but what treasure isn’t worth treading in manure for?”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “We know where the smaller vents are, but not Stillwell’s escape route. We’ll send in the children and they’ll clear the place out.”

  They looked off at the kids in the muddy plains. Hundreds of barbarian youths wrestled in the mud, enjoying themselves.

  “You will send your children off to such a horrid place?” Tammas said.

  Brock shrugged. “It’ll help in their man-making and, Hell, they’re the only ones small enough to fit in the vents. They’re curious by nature and will love the job.”

  Maddox stepped away from them and whispered to his grandfather, “They came all this way with a plan like that? They have balls, you have to grant them this much.”

  “As far as brains go…” Kayla muttered.

  Gorias said to Brock, “How is it you are so certain of the plans of the army of Nosmada?”

  Brock gestured for them to follow him to the edge of their encampment. There were a few trees and shrubs thereabouts. He said to Gorias, “You know of the practice of augury?”

  “The reading of guts?” The old man laughed. “Yes, seen it done with many an animal.”

  “It works.”

  Gorias blinked, trying to comprehend what he saw. Maddox and Tammas caught on quicker and the bard vomited. The barbarians thought this greatly humorous. Kayla had no reaction other than a frown. The same reaction Gorias sent Brock.

  At the end of a series of four trees lay two bodies clothed in leather jerkins from the army of Nosmada. One body was somewhat bloated. Gorias guessed his death occurred a while ago. However, his fellow soldier remained alive. Through the tree line was strung a gray and pink, fleshy rope. One end was tied to the first tree, and the other ends terminated in the bellies of the soldiers. The man alive screamed out many words, pleading for death, confessing everything he knew about his army and their positions. By the looks of things, he had been confessing for some time. Now, keeping him alive was simply cruel amusement.

  “I told you for true.” Brock chuckled. “One can learn a great deal from the reading of guts!”

  They turned away and Maddox patted Tammas on the back.

  Gorias murmured, “Haven’t seen augury that effective in years.”

  “How can they…” Tammas stammered.

  “They are barbarians,” Kayla said hotly, as if that explained it all.

  “Don’t show weakness,” Gorias said. “They don’t bother feeding off the weak. They crush them and walk on.”

  “Is it weak to be human?”

  Gorias paused, thinking. “No, I guess not, but it’s a luxury we cannot have out here today.” He slapped Tammas on the shoulder and moved closer to the edge of the encampment. Squinting, he thought he saw a dull ripple in the emerging day’s glow. Was it a trick of his eyes? What did he see?

  A grubby barbarian child approached his horse. “I don’t believe in dragons.”

  Gorias glanced at him, but kept his eye on the raw desert ahead. The sun slammed into the back of the dissipating clouds. “Good for you. You can’t fear something you don’t believe exists.”

  “I don’t believe you slew them all or any of such a thing.”

  “A boy has to have his convictions.”

  “Did you really do it?”

  Gorias’ turned his withered face to the boy. “When you go into battle you call on Wodan, your god. Ever seen one of them there gods of yours?”

  “No.”

  “And yet you believe in them, huh?”

  The boy glowed as he said with malice, “I think it’s all a big story. All of it.”

  “What? The creation of the world and all of the spirits?”

  “No.” The boy smiled, showing a mouth full of bad teeth. “All of the stories about you.”

  Gorias threw back his mane of hair and roared with laughter.

  “Really, it’s silly to think a single man could kill a dragon.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  The reddish locks of the boy blew in the wind. “Then how did you do it?”

  Gorias opened his cloak. The boy gasped at what he saw inside and the other barbarians gaped as well. “Satisfied?”

  Pulling his rough covering tighter about himself, Gorias shuddered from the chilly wind.

  Brock segued back toward Gorias and said, “Any other man would have been skinned alive by now, La Gaul.”

  The dim daylight gave life to the distant ruins of Larak as Gorias said, “They would have tried.”

  “Ya see, they think if one legend is so, then the rest must be true.”

  Gorias exhaled as if to show the hairy man just how bored he was with his words. “I’m lucky more than blessed. That’s what you can build a fetish to—luck and chance. The older one gets, the wiser one becomes, as a rule.”

  “I’m not one for gods, even though we invoke some,” Brock said. “I’ve more faith in the strength of my arms than in any deity hurling lightning overhead.”

  Gorias never replied.

  The clear blue eyes of Brock looked at Gorias’ backpack where the twin sword casings were and said, “They say yer blades are made from the wings of angels.”

  “That’s just preposterous,” Gorias dead panned, never looking away from the ruins toward the desert.

  “They say that ya talk to angels.”

  “Who are they anyway? Some people talk too much. You ask more stupid questions than that kid.”

  Angered, Brock pressed on. “And they say that’s why you make the bold pronouncement about deliverance every time ya face certain death. They say ya are counting on angelic intervention at the moment of yer death.”

  “A great many of these folks who talk need to listen to songs about someone else,” Gorias said. “All of that is a load of hokum. I’m a tired old soldier nearing the end of his term on this filthy planet. We all want to die fighting, no? It just doesn’t matter to me where I happen to fall fighting. I just want it to be worth it.”

  “Ya don’t fear a violent death?”

  “Fear it?” Gorias said as he saw a pale, glowing ripple on the edge of the town. “I’m counting on it.”

  Brock laughed then his voice went grim. “War is a man’s means to an end. War is child’s play to even the toy soldiers taking orders from Tolin. But I know something those orderly men don’t know. I understand war is good. They see it as a terrible circumstance that will ensure domination for their Lord. Bah. War isn’t a dirty business. War means death, but that’s a part of life. War is life. War is good, so very good, and I have never felt so alive as I do now.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  Coming to a Head

  *

  An hour before noon, the rain stopped over the troops of Nosmada. Soldiers roused Tolin from sleep, per his orders. His austere face studied the sky and breathed in deep. He turned to his attendant sergeant then ordered the hulking Tubal, “Assemble the captains.”

  Tubal wiped moisture from his bald head, stood at attention, and saluted. “They await ya in the main tent, General. They’
re thirsty fer action.”

  Tolin imparted a wry smile. “That is good. Action is what they will be drunk on soon enough.” He went into his private tent and stripped off his casual uniform and lighter armor. Tolin donned undergarments then a light leather covering. Over this he put on his chain mail armor. Once this mesh fit in place, Tolin pulled on various plates for better protection—greaves for his shins, poleyns for his knees, a couters at his elbows, light pauldrons on his shoulders, and a fauld over his groin. Placing metallic sabatons over his feet, he pulled light tassets up over his thighs then vambraces across his forearms. Securing the goret about his neck, the general grabbed his gauntlets. Once adorned as such, he exited the booth.

  When he entered the long tent, his men saluted. They knew if Tolin dressed as such, he meant bloody business.

  “We march as soon as you can assemble your units. We go unto the foundry to arm ourselves and press on. There is enough daylight left to make it by dusk. If we must pitch tents at the edge of Khabnur, then we will spend the night there. I believe we will overcome that goal long before afternoon dies. The wagons cannot travel on the roads, nor will we. Have your men march in columns in the roughs, armed with what they have. They will get plenty of chance to use the new weapons soon enough.”

  “You don’t think we will pitch tents, do you?” Karter said.

  “From the reports of our rangers, the barbarian force is preparing to move,” Tolin said. “If that occurs, then our slower moving force will run into them sooner or later. I will take the fight to them. If they attack us in transit, I will swing the entire army into a curl and pinch them off. The moving will be slow, but not nearly as much so as if we were followed by a ponderous baggage train of wagons.”

  The men saluted, and Captain Karter asked, “Sir, what of the gold and jade for Mitre Stillwell? There’s a great deal of it in the carts.”

  Tolin pulled his heavy gauntlets tighter. “What of it?”

  The captains remained at attention, yet they looked back and forth at one another. Each man knew what was being asked and what the answer would be.