Devil's Dominion

by Stephen Trolly

  * * * * *

  Norrin stood and rested his hands on the table in front of him, leaning on his fingertips. “I am leaving Dishmo Kornara. I intend to go tomorrow.” He let his councillors stand and shout their objections, letting them argue, disagree, and even threaten to inform King Erygan of his disobedience. When they had shouted themselves hoarse, he took Elshay’s letter, creased and yellowed from how many times already he had read it, but still almost reverently cared for, from one of his pockets and laid it on the table. “This letter was sent to me, almost two weeks ago now, by Elshay Cabrinda, the Governor of Alquendiro, and Steward to the Flowing Throne in Edya Reeshnar’s absence from Drogoda. Governor Cabrinda wrote to tell me that Guinira herself is marching to war. She is leading over three hundred thousand Deshika.” He left a heavy emphasis on just how many Deshika were following Guinira. He paused and observed the circle of dark faces as they took in the number. “And she is leading them north.” He paused again, savouring the silence that filled the room. “North, to Braldish, where she will meet with her wretch of a Morschledu-Hunter General Hialed Volkure: the man who decapitates any Morschledu he finds and keeps their heads as trophies.” He let the angry muttering continue for almost a minute, letting his advisors become emotional, letting them form a connection to his call to act. “Volkure has Vorteez’s First Legion, the Whip Crackers; another forty-nine thousand Deshika.” Norrin turned away from the table to stare at a large tapestry, a map of Anaria, which was hanging behind him. “The army that is now marching on Braldish from two directions is nearly the same size as the army that The Kindler used to crush the combined armies of the Ten Nations at Emin-Tal.” Norrin turned back to face his advisors. “With the exception of my army.” Norrin paused yet again, watching his message sink in. He was ashamed that he had used his orders as a shield to hide his people. “Eschcota did not fight at Emi-Tal. Because we were ordered to stay here. Had we been there, Anaria would not have fallen so quickly. Guinira might never have become Queen. Makret Druoth might have been killed. The Deshika could have been routed and driven back into the sea. The last two years might not have needed to happen. Because I obeyed a King whose leash is held by five eunuchs hiding in a tower almost as far from any real part of this war as it’s possible to get.” Norrin’s advisors started to whisper amongst themselves. He hadn’t won them over. He didn’t care. They were his servants, not the other way around. “It doesn’t matter what you tell me, stay or go. I am Morschcoda. I do what I say, not what you advise, unless I choose so to do. I choose to do this. Braldish has never fallen while its Morschcoda defends it.” He folded his hands in front of him and rested his chin on his tented index fingers as he sat down. “I leave for Braldish in the morning. Someone see to it that the Mountain Guard is prepared to return home.”

  One man couldn’t restrain himself. “Only the Mountain Guard, my Lord? Why not the whole army? If Braldish needs warriors as badly as you believe it does ...” Norrin silenced him by cracking one knuckle at a time.

  “The Remnant must hold Braldish, but it must also hold Dishmo Kornara. Braldish can receive reinforcements from the Remnant in Dothoro, Noldoron, and Torridesta. Dishmo Kornara only has the Eschcotan Army, if the Seven find the city. So, the army stays here.” Norrin nodded to dismiss his councillors. They stood up, slowly and with more than a hint of grumbled protest, and filed out of the doors opposite Norrin’s seat. A young woman, Ristan, with long blonde hair, an evenly tanned complexion, and long legs, detached herself from the wall and came over to Norrin. She stood behind him, massaging his shoulders and rubbing his neck as another servant brought him wine, leaving as soon as he poured his Morschcoda a cupful. Norrin groaned, sighed, and stretched. “I thought that that would take longer.”

  “You are their Morschcoda, my Lord.” The woman’s voice was soft and silky, light and seductive as she whispered the words in his ear. “It is your privilege to command them.”

  “Yes … But a Morschcoda only has so much power. Even I can’t command a man who won’t see reason. Politicians and bureaucrats aren’t usually people who see reason.”

  “Maybe the Morschcoda should try commanding a woman instead.” She whispered again, and then gently licked his ear while still rubbing his shoulders.

  “What kind of command should I give this woman?” Norrin half-turned his head, looking up at her out of the corner of his eye.

  She walked around his chair and stood in front of him, then lowered herself to sit straddling his legs. “Whatever command my Lord desires.” She started to loosen the ties on his shirt, pulling it open to reveal his dark chest, then his stomach. She grabbed his hands and pulled them up to the ties of her own shirt, prompting him to do the same thing.

  Norrin’s fingers hesitated as he looked into her grey-blue eyes. “I have many things to do tonight. Much to prepare.”

  She moved his fingers for him. “And you have many people who can do those things and make those preparations for you.”

  Her shirt started to fall away from her shoulders as she leaned back to slip it off, Norrin still hesitating to do any of the work. “I have to leave early in the morning.”

  She started moving her hands across his bare chest. “Morning is whenever my Lord decides it is.”

  Norrin started to speak again, but she touched his lips with one finger, then pulled herself closer to him and guided his hands to the back of her hips. Norrin leaned in and kissed her. He got his hands underneath her thighs and stood, lifting her easily and setting her gently on the table. She moved her hands to his belt, loosening it with speed born of a long practice of her profession. Norrin didn’t hesitate any longer.

  * * * * *

  Norrin pulled himself exhaustedly to a sitting position on his bed. The Ristan girl was there beside him. He went over the night in his mind, wondering what she had done differently from other girls his secretary had hired for him. ‘Maybe I should bring her with me.’ As well as his body responded to the idea, he discarded it immediately. He wanted to travel with speed, only his guards and whatever supplies they absolutely must have to see them to Braldish. Brining along one prostitute for his own personal pleasure would be one thing if he were traveling slowly with an army, where there would be hundreds of camp followers, which by nature would include other women to take care of his soldiers. Bringing one woman along with only twenty soldiers would only upset his guards and cost him time that he couldn’t afford to lose.

  He twisted and set his feet on the cold stone floor, looking for pants and other articles of clothing. The girl was still asleep, and he decided against waking her. He stood to search his wardrobe, finally finding suitable clothing for a long day of travel. His servants had already packed most such clothes and had likely taken those packs to the stables to be ready whenever their master decided it was time to leave. He pulled on the pants and shirt that he had found, then went back to sit on the bed to pull on his boots. Finally, he crossed the room to where a giant, ornately carved hammer hung on the bare stone of the room’s west wall: Riin-Dair, the Night-Bringer.

  Norrin took the hammer down from the wall, lifting it easily despite its size, and slipped the handle into a special sheath on his belt. Riin-Dair was an ancient weapon, dating back over one hundred thousand years to a long and bloody war between Eschcota and Torridesta. The Morschcoda of Eschcota, Driin Kiura, had taken an ordinary sledgehammer and enchanted it, then carved runes into the head and along the handle. Afterwards, he used it to execute Torridestan prisoners that had been caught spying on Eschcota. Torridestan Morschledu cursed the entire country of Eschcota with an endless night in retaliation. When the war started, one of Morschcoda Kiura’s Generals told him that the hammer was responsible for bringing night to Eschcota, and Driin had named his hammer after the General’s words.

  The young Ristan woman finally began to stir, just as Norrin decided that he would wear his armour, at least for the first day, riding through the city itself. It was always good to be seen as a great warrior in Di
shmo Kornara, especially with the war that raged beyond the walls. She sat up, letting the blankets fall away from her as she watched him pull a long chainmail shirt over his head. A servant then helped him buckle a breastplate over the mail. Two pauldrons of black steel, each with a row of short spikes, fit onto his shoulders, followed by matching, spiked bracers on his wrists. Greaves, also with rows of short spikes, were belted onto his shins, cinched tight over his leather boots. Then, a heavy leather belt went around the chainmail below the breastplate. Riin-Dair, which he had removed from his other belt, went into a similar sheath on the armour-belt. This sheath had silver-steel inlay that matched the carvings in the hammer’s handle. Finally, Norrin picked up a heavy full helmet of black steel, which had several rows of spikes, one curving row on either side around where the curve of his ears would be, and another row of longer spikes over the crown of his head. He carried the helmet instead of putting it on, and walked out the door of his room with only a passing glance for the woman who had most recently shared his bed.

  * * * * *

  Not even one full hour after leaving Dishmo Kornara behind, Norrin was already wondering why he’d done it. The armour was heavy and hot, and he was exhausted just wearing it. He didn’t like to think how sore and tired his horse probably was, having to carry not just the armour, but Norrin himself and his packs. Still, they had made good time. Lake Miliish was already in sight, and they would camp on its southern shore. Norrin remembered the Ristan girl with mixed feelings now. She would have made that night much better for him, but he was also already stiff and sore, too stiff and sore to enjoy her company. And he didn’t want to lose a night of sleep that he desperately needed, no matter how enjoyable the reason.

  Leaving camp the next morning, Norrin made the wise decision to not wear the heavy steel armour, though he still wore the chainmail. He and his men rode west and north, following the curve of the lake for two more days until they reached a long beach of white sand. When they broke camp the next morning, they headed north-west, into the heart of Eschcota, aiming slightly north of Braldish, instead of directly at the city, in hopes of finding one of Erygan’s armies. After three days of uneventful travel, his guards saw a Torridestan patrol riding to meet them.

  * * * * *

  Eildar Dalrey was still getting used to being the Morschcoda of Torridesta, and he found when he met Norrin Shrevneer that he was still uncomfortable with his relatively new title. Eildar felt like the Eschcotan Morschcoda towered over him, even with Norrin sitting down. Eildar coughed and finally spoke. “I know that you were hoping to find my father, Morschcoda Norrin, but I will help you in any way that I can.”

  “In any way that you can?” Norrin pulled out his pipe and cleaned it, knocking the bowl against his boot. He then filled the bowl and lit the pipeweed. “Good. I need your army.”

  “I can’t give you my army, Morschcoda.”

  “Look, son—”

  “Morschcoda.”

  Norrin spoke around the pipe stem in his mouth. “I know that I’m a Morschcoda, you don’t have to keep addressing me formally.”

  “I meant that I’m Morschcoda. My father stepped down and named me the Morschcoda of Torridesta.”

  Norrin stared blankly for a minute, assessing Eildar again with the benefit of the new information. “Fair enough. Now, I need your army.”

  “Norrin.” Eildar ground his teeth in frustration. “I can’t give you my army. I may be Morschcoda, but my father is still the King. I have to keep my men in between Hialed Volkure and Braldish. I’ve already failed in letting him cross the Baan-Taar,” Eildar sat down, not quite facing Norrin. “I just didn’t have the men to stop him.”

  “So why fight him on his terms? Why not fall back to Braldish, defend strong walls? Level the field.” Norrin took a long draw from his pipe and took it out of his mouth, blowing the smoke towards the chimney hole in the top of the tent.

  Eildar leaned on the table, his left side to Norrin and his right to the flap of his tent. “I wish it were that simple, Norrin. Lasheed knows I do.”

  “If it isn’t, I might be able to make it simpler.” Norrin pulled out Elshay’s letter and handed it to Eildar. “Read.”

  Eildar shook his head, but took the folded pages. Norrin figured out when he reached the description of Guinira’s army by the trembling of Eildar’s hands as his grip tightened to the point where he almost tore the papers and by how white his face turned as the blood left it. “Three hundred thousand? And that’s just Deshika, not Armandans?”

  “Just Deshika. Plus the other almost fifty thousand that this Volkure bastard has.”

  “Thirty thousand. And that may not mean much to you right now, but before this new army, that meant a hell of a lot to my men.”

  Norrin nodded his head. “It still means a hell of a lot. It—” Norrin didn’t get to finish his sentence. A soldier burst in through the tent flap. He had an arrow sticking out of his shoulder that he didn’t seem to notice. “Morschcoda, Volkure is here …” He collapsed to his knees as blood-loss from his shoulder caught up to him.

  “Morschcoda Norrin, if you intend to get to Braldish, you had better go now.” Eildar picked up a helmet from his desk and drew his sword.

  Norrin pulled Riin-Dair out of its sheath. “Order a retreat to Braldish. It’s the only way any of your men get out of this alive.” Norrin forced himself passed the younger Morschcoda and left the tent.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To kill the Armandan bastard. Where else?”

  * * * * *

  Hialed Volkure had been moving his Deshika little by little, every night, maneuvering to surround the Torridestan army that stood between him and Braldish, the last true stronghold of the Morschledu Remnant. If he could have bypassed the Torridestan army completely, he would have done that, but he knew that with portals, they could put themselves between him and Braldish no matter how fast his army moved. Destroying Eildar Dalrey and his army would rip the heart out of Torridesta, destroying their will to fight, and likely taking Erygan’s entire false kingdom down with the prince.

  Volkure had already decided that he had waited as long to be prepared as he could reasonably expect the Torridestans to give him, when something strange happened. Twenty or so men rode into the Torridestan camp with a Torridestan patrol. Deshik scouts had been watching the group of knights for the last day as they approached the soon-to-be battlefield, but only when he saw them with his own eyes did he bare his teeth in a feral, bloodthirsty smile. He had seen the hammer hanging from Norrin’s belt.

  He gave orders to his War Chiefs as quickly as possible. “There is a large man, wielding a large hammer. Under no condition is he to be killed. Surround him. Keep him alive. Stay out of his reach. Protect him, if you have to, but make sure that he survives long enough for me to get to him. The honour of removing his head is mine and mine alone, and I will make whatever nightmares you might suffer at the hands of Vorteez seem the most pleasant of dreams if I am denied that right for any reason.”

  The War Chiefs all bowed, but one spoke. “What if he is going to escape? How do we prevent that if we cannot attack him?”

  Volkure’s feral grin didn’t falter. “I would rather he escape knowing that I let him go than die by any hand but mine.” He walked up to each of them, still grinning his wolfish smile, and pulled their faces close to his so that, one by one, they had to stare into his eyes. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, General,” was each one’s answer in turn.

  “Good.” He released the final War Chief and turned away from them to face south-west, towards the Torridestan camp. “Have the archers practice their aim on anything that moves inside that camp. Then prepare the main force. We will end Torridesta here, today.”

  * * * * *

  Norrin pulled on pieces of his steel armour over the chainmail he had been wearing, but buckling the breastplate was difficult without help. He decided against it after struggling for a few moments, and strapped on the greaves an
d bracers instead. He put the helmet on and picked up Riin-Dair just as a group of Deshika found him and his guards. Almost immediately, Norrin noticed something strange. Though the Deshika would attack his guards without question, very few even came within striking distance of his hammer. Norrin took that personally. He had been waiting for a good fight since the Deshika had returned to Anaria. He had been late to Toredo, and had been left behind at Emin-Tal. He was not going to deny Riin-Dair the chance to taste Deshik blood this time.

  Time after time, Norrin and his guards ran across Deshika, and time after time, Norrin had to surprise them if he wanted Riin-Dair to taste blood. But he was killing, and he enjoyed it, despite how easy it seemed. Then, he saw an Armandan man walking slowly towards him, and he understood his mistake.

  * * * * *

  Eildar savagely sliced through a Deshika Death Stalker that had sprung up out of nowhere. He hadn’t even known that the Whip Crackers had Death Stalkers with them. He had done what Norrin had advised and ordered a full retreat to Braldish, but now, as he flailed around him with his sword, cutting down or wounding Deshika with practically every stroke, he wondered where the Eschcotan Morschcoda was. Then, he looked up long enough to survey the battle, already mostly over. His camp was in flames, his men were deserting in droves, running for their lives either south or west, and the Deshika were already in complete control of the battlefield, except for a shrinking ring near the camp’s eastern edge: Norrin’s camp.