“Are you going to impress me with a better vista now?”
Silken robes fluttered through the series of phallic stones in the ruins.
“Of course,” it said and laughed a little, sounding like an echo in a cavern. “How is this?”
From out of the tall series of obelisks the Draco-Lich glided into view. Suspended on two large, bat-like wings, the undead dragon set down on bony, clawed feet. All around him in a semi-circle stood the Cult of the Dragon dressed in greenish robes.
A rush went through Gorias’ chest, for it had been a long time since he beheld anything like a dragon. Truly, in his heart of hearts, he hoped all his fears were for naught concerning the resurrected beast. Yet the little priests in emerald robes, practically masturbating at the sight of their living god, confirmed his dread.
Spectacular, even in its undead state, the dragon appeared as grand and as imposing as any he had slain in the past. Even with its flesh reconstituted and not gleaming, save for where the sun struck the platelets, the dragon made him pause. Poised on two legs, not unlike those of a vulture, the Draco-Lich had uncanny grace. The long front legs were like those of a man’s arms, save for they terminated in hideous claws. The striped underbelly of the Draco-Lich was akin to that of a snake or lizard, but it bore an upper torso that ran almost humanoid. Down its limbs trekked raised scales that would prove deadly if dashed against flesh.
As with any dragon, the wings and face made the creature. The wings appeared constructed out of puzzle pieces. These colossal flaps came together at the Draco-Lich’s back, while its long legs sprouted from the torso. The head was more quizzical than he would have thought for a blue dragon. Bizarre was its humanoid facial expression, yet the elongated skull showed more kinship with a lizard than a man. However, the orbits of the eyes and structure of the nose proved much more human than reptilian, and this aided its humanlike facade. Fins and spikes were packed in tight rows up the nose, then back down the head like slicked hair. In the middle of its scalp a grand series of razory spikes perched like a rooster’s comb
It is not a wonder lesser men worship such a thing, he ruminated, still taking in the creature. However, when he focused and the dragon pranced a few steps, actuality set in. The sun reflected off a few scales--original pieces of the brute still left. There wasn’t much of the authentic dragon remaining. The patchy lattice of its flesh attested to this verity. Time and the elements had taken its buried tissue as it did with any animal.
The beast wasn’t unlike the corpse of Carlato Wyss resurrected by his pathetic followers. The Cult of the Dragon, however, knew their craft better. There were no bits of sand or dirt on this beast. This network of scales held a uniform surface, pretending to be scales, but what shaped the armored platelets was not dragon. Upon closer inspection Gorias saw it was parallel to human muscle, but not on a magnificent degree. No, it was as if several biceps and calf muscles were melted together to construct this breathing monster from the primeval epoch.
He recalled the missing villagers of Oliverian and realized where this tissue had come from.
“You’ve seen healthier days.”
The Draco-Lich roared with laughter that came to an abrupt stop. “You as well. But you are mistaken, aged foe. I am not a dragon. I am your executioner. I am your devil and god. I am Carlato Wyss.”
Gorias rode his grandson’s mount and the horse faltered, ill used to the old warrior’s movements. The Draco-Lich made no move to attack him. If anything, the creature appeared bemused by him. Squinting in between the pillars, he beheld a section of the city hardly touched by the all encompassing devastation, or maybe reset by large hands. This zone stood with complex symmetry. Some perplexity spread on his face, as he did not comprehend what blew in the wind amongst these columns. The materials seemed to wave at him.
Unsheathing his two swords caused the cult members to back up a step. Their Lord never moved as Gorias said, “You know me, then, and what I have done.”
“Yes. The tales of yore spread far when you slew the dragon that was this one.”
Gorias watched the Draco-Lich run its claws carefully over its muscled chest before he said, “I’ll kill myself to see you die.”
“You are no fool, that is true, and you break your code, for you speak to me too much before the action begins. You expect to break me? That is a fine jest, La Gaul. You killed me already, do you hear? You killed me years ago.”
“You are just a crazy murderer, Wyss. Directing the law to your activities caused you to be dumped in that bog. I never cut off your head. Now you have a body to match your ego.”
“Murderer? Me? If I started on a binge of murder, little man, believe me, there would be none of you left.”
“That’s what you have in mind, no? Destruction for all empires of the earth, so ripe for your taking.” Gorias recalled the mind games of Wyss, played on the youths of Shynar. “You’re all about death and pages from the Daemonolateria. You will murder the earth.”
The rows of fangs in the dragon’s maw parted. “The earth should die and all of her kingdoms with her. Everything that walks or crawls should cease to be. In a blaze of fire, it should go the way of the dragons. Let its utter corpse belong to the flies. Then I shall be its Lord.”
*****
Never had so much terror been in Tammas’ breast. Running miles with the barbarian children proved an exhausting exercise. Though no great thewed warrior, Tammas was quite fit and didn’t falter in the long run. Even the primal children knew to pace themselves for the coming enterprise, jogging as if a trained troop.
Luckily, there was an open prairie and not a clotted landscape for them to overcome. If anything, the tall, dead grasses of winter hid their advance. Tammas felt the thrill of subterfuge as they jogged.
He lost his sense of direction a few times, but the barbarian children slapped his head. They goaded him to follow on and he did so. As one of the collective, they understood the way.
On the eastern side of the Foundry of Syn, the land dipped low. A rotten stench filled his nose as they saw the deep valley and treacherous cracks in the earth serving as the depository for wastes.
“The ass of the foundry,” Tammas named the series of pipes. The name was true, for every form of waste shot out of the metallic tunnels at regular intervals. The ejecta wasn’t a flood, just minor dribbles. Tammas gritted his teeth and controlled his gag reflex while traipsing in through this route.
Just as Brock and Gorias figured, there were two Minorcs guarding this horrid spot. Both sat down, incredibly bored with their duty. Tammas absently wondered just how worthless one would have to be at their work to be assigned this duty. The youths snuck up in silence, then made signals at Tammas to support their coming attack.
The children struck. They arose in a wave of humanity that confounded the Minorcs. A rain of rocks was the first thing to fall on the guards, making them unready for the rising of hundreds of lean, wild children. A dark haired boy leapt onto the thighs of one, swiftly raising a stone axe above his head. The Minorc would have cast him off easily if half a dozen bodies weren’t weighing down each arm. With a sickening splat, the skull of the Minorc broke. He fell backwards, the youths stabbing his body repeatedly, killing him more times than he needed to die. The youth shouted the name of Wodan and laughed. Tammas thought this one looked a great deal like Brock, but he never asked, nor did the boy trumpet the fact. He just fought.
The same operation happened on the other Minorc, but this one arose and threw off his oppressors. Even though dozens of them surrounded the guard, it felt as if the last two folks on earth were Tammas and the giant creature. Letting go of his sword, Tammas unslung his bow. The beast stepped toward him though biting children hugged his calves. He fixed an arrow and let it fly. The projectile hit the Minorc’s chest plate and deflected. A curse word slipped, then Tammas pulled his sword. The flood of children couldn’t stop the Minorc. He r
eached out and knocked Tammas to the ground with a balled up fist.
His head full of lights, nose gushing blood, Tammas tried to rise, but the creature loomed over him. Feet stomping echoed in his ears and a flood of bodies hit the ogre in the back. He stumbled forward. Tammas shouted in anger and utter fear, raising his weapon. As if by design, the creature fell hard, his skull directly aimed at the short blade of Tammas. On top of the bard, the Minorc wretched and breathed his last. Brains oozed from his nostrils as his skull popped partially open like the claws of a lobster.
All around the dead Minorc, the children danced.
Tammas shouted, “Roll this damn thing off me!”
The barbarian children did so and Tammas stood. The bard wiped brains and blood from his face and laughed in spite of the act. The tall barbarian youth took blood from the dead Minorc and painted marks on Tammas’ face, then his own. On some primitive level, Tammas became one of them. However, he allowed the youth to lead them into the pipes. He wasn’t crazy.
*****
Several hours of drinking passed before Mitre Stillwell lay down for a second nap. He oft awoke in a state of delirium, afraid he was back in time at the door of some great horror. The Minorcs or Beholders would never go to wake him at a time such as this. They knew to stay outside, safe from his accidental rage. Nevertheless, Stillwell awoke coughing, a-feared that he was a young man again, trapped in a burning house that his legion had razed.
“Out of my way, you bastards,” he shouted, swinging his meaty arms at phantoms in his mind. Stillwell rolled off his large couch and landed on the floor of his office. In his ears rang the panicked shouts of the Beholders who stood vigil at the Foundry of Syn. In his nostrils snaked the stench of smoke and ash.
“Mitre,” one of the Beholders howled both in his ears and inside his mind. “There is something wrong with our ventilation system.”
“Sharp fellows for Beholders, you are.” he said as he climbed to his feet. Wiping his mouth, he recoiled again from the stench in the air. The door opened and the floating Beholder gaped at him. “What’s going on at the filters? What do the guards report?”
“They have never returned, my Lord!” the Beholders said. “It stinks worse than bodily functions across the entire foundry.”
Mitre’s huge nose wrinkled as he swore. He grabbed the overhead scope and raised it to observe the surface. Dropping the scope fast, he reached for the twin headed axe on his wall. Spinning this weapon no human could handle, he then grabbed up a triangular shaped shield off his other wall. Many thought these items a display to show the foundry could create any sort of weapon. However, these were minted just for the hands of Mitre Stillwell.
“What is it, Lord?” Fright crept into the Beholders’ eerie voices.
Mitre returned to the wall and strapped on a long sword also made for his size. He said nothing.
The Beholder persisted, “What did you see?”
With one fluid motion, he snatched the Beholder’s eyestalks in his right hand, bringing the creature to his face. “I saw a barbarian child passing water on the lense of my scope, that’s what I saw.”
Stillwell threw the Beholder against the wall with an incredible backhand swipe. The floating being couldn’t stop itself and the momentum of the blow made it bounce off the wall. As it wobbled in the air, the Beholder returned near to Mitre, who swiped with his axe, dividing the creature in half as if it were a melon. The pieces flew and stayed afloat for a brief moment before plummeting to the floor.
The two Minorcs and other Beholders receded from the office as Stillwell stepped out, stomping the lower half of the severed head as he went..
Two Minorcs ran up, holding a smoking blanket between them. A single Beholder cautiously floated behind them, saying to Mitre, “Here it is, my Lord. A series of these things were clotted into the vents. The passageways are open now and the air will soon clear.”
Visibility was dim on the main production line behind them, but he put down the axe, reached out, and snatched the covering. He cursed and threw it down. “It is mammoth hide, damn their eyes. We are under attack.”
The Minorcs looked at him, dumbfounded, and the Beholder said, “Surely not, my Lord. It is a simple jape by children.”
Like the suddenness of lightning, the cheers of hundreds of voices flooded the outer office. Mitre shoved his way past the Minorc and looked over the terrace onto the main floor of the foundry. Confused, he shook the railing violently as if he could banish what he saw.
Countless barbarian youths, some clad in animal hides, others running naked, stabbed and slew the guards of the Foundry of Syn. One of the Minorc overseers beheaded one of the boys. The head rolled across a series of women’s hands cooling blades in water. It plopped in the liquid and vanished, but the barbarian’s slayer soon felt the wrath of this child’s brethren. A spear perforated the Minorc’s colon. Barbarian children used knives made of bones to stab bellies, while nail boots kept them steady on the meshed cat-walks. Many guards flailed, mouths agape in screams.
The Minorcs swung fast at the savage children, but the barbarians wriggled between their legs like puppies at play. Often, they stabbed the thighs of the Minorcs. Just as Brock taught them, even a Minorc would fall if his hamstrings were cut. Though the Beholders faired better at eluding the children, some of these overseers were stabbed and used as playthings in a brutal game of death, not unlike dodge ball.
The Beholder’s panicked, trying to use their mental power on the children. It was like trying to tame a herd of rats, and oft their power bounced off the Minorc’s minds. These guards fell and went into convulsions, the power of the Beholders fracturing their brains.
Mitre howled a cry louder than the insane war songs of the children. All was still for a moment as he shouted over the production floor.
Putting his axe down he pointed and screamed, “You are all dogs and have no will of your own! These barbarians are here for the weapons. Shut up and let them take what they want!” He looked at the group of children in front of him and gasped, dropping his arm. A pair of figures stepped forward from the mass of barbarians and bleeding guards. “You bastard!”
The face of Tammas, painted in stripes of blood for war paint, was familiar to Stillwell. However, the man who loomed next to Tammas caused the head of the foundry the greater concern. The towering man, his back a cruel network of scars, raised muscle bound arms. All of the workers could see the reality of what caused Mitre to scream out in terror: Noel was free.
Worse yet for Management, Noel was armed. He held Stillwell’s twin headed axe in his left hand and a fresh broadsword in the other. No regular man could weld such objects and fight. Noel, though, corded and sturdy, had the ability. He jumped onto the production floor away from Mitre. At the lines of workers, he broke their interlocking chains. One by one, Noel freed several workers held together by a long communal link. At times, he would swing the axe up, killing a Minorc who tried to stop him in his labors. One Minorc nearly did cut his head off. Noel dodged the savage blow, put down his sword, and gripped the heavy axe with both hands. Swinging overhand, he cleaved the Minorc’s skull down to the bottom teeth.
Noel grabbed the sword again then pointed, showing the others to take up arms and kill their oppressors. In the air heavy with sweat and oils, now blood and brains intermingled, giving the laborers a new breath of what was to come. Noel never told them what freedom tasted like, but in a moment, all of them realized what swam near to their palates.
They reached out and took the nearest piece of steel, men and women alike, then shouted screams of rebellion. Quite a few were slain outright by the Minorcs. Many brains burst under the power of the Beholders, but there were too many of them to stop at once. Chaos ensued and Noel was its emperor. The workers slew and fought, some even using their chains as weapons.
The laborers of the foundry were human to the core. The seething hatred boiling f
or too long exploded, and they settled old scores. Anger and petty jealousy rose up inside dozens of the workers, who slew each other in the morass of bloodlust on the production floor. At one point, two men threw a Minorc into the smelting pot then fought hard until one cast his brother in as well.
Tammas trudged in the wake of Noel and concentrated on slaying the Beholders. He could feel their power in his mind, but he could also taste their panic. It hung heavy and chewed as thick as bacon in his maw.
Noel performed like a berserker unleashed, slaying and killing any Minorc who dared step close to him. Once he paused to stop a female worker as she scalped another woman. When he lifted her by the hair with one hand, Noel gave the woman a curious look. She held up her bloody trophy, the scalp of her hated enemy, and acted as if she just won the war. Noel dropped her and shook his head.
Then he went for the stairs, after Stillwell.
Several of the Minorcs scrambled in retreat, and Mitre beheaded two of them with his large sword. “Yeah, run you little pricks!” He planted his feet, staring down Noel, who faced him on the cat-walk. “You have always wanted a piece of me, you big sonofabitch! Come take on the power of—”
While the bugbear’s bluster reached its crescendo, Tammas loosed an arrow. It struck Stillwell in the good eye. Mitre dropped his sword and shield, roaring to the ceiling.
“You took away my sight!” he screamed and stamped about, causing anyone nearby to scatter, save for Tammas and Noel. Mitre raged, “You will kill me like a dog, damned coward! That’s the way of all you scum, eh? I’ll rape you in Hell for eons, Noel!”
Tammas shouted out, “You took away Noel’s mouth and all of their souls. Your state seems a fair exchange to me.”
Noel reached down and picked up Mitre’s sword. He placed it into the hand of the supervisor of the Foundry of Syn. Mitre gripped the weapon, holding it true. He staggered, failing to adopt a defensive stance. Then Noel buried the axe in Stillwell’s right leg at the knee.
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