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  “She’ll murder him,” Gorias said casually and put down his drink. “He’ll rise from the dead tomorrow to join the unholy horde of Nosmada, unless they burn his filthy ass. I’d bet another round on it.”

  No sooner had Gorias spoke than Arius made a play for the dirk. The woman moved, but not toward the table. Shavon reached toward her left forearm and came out with a tiny, curved blade. As Arius raised the dirk triumphantly in the air, Shavon sliced his neck clean across. Arius’ smile remained stuck in place as his throat gaped open, vomiting out blood on the gaming table.

  “So much for those cards,” Gorias quipped.

  Mitre Stillwell smiled and drank, coughing on some of it. His minuscule servant peered out from his cover then returned to his spot under the table.

  “I’ll take that,” Shavon said with a grin, snatching the dirk from the dying man’s grasp. Arius fell over the table, sending bloody cards to flight, and the room gasped for the most part. She bent close to his ear, whispering, “Was it as fine as you thought?”

  As Shavon cackled loud, Gorias faced the door to the mead hall. It lay twenty feet away. He stepped forward, never picking up his walking staff. Wiping his boots on the mesh on the floor, he moved from the bar with some speed.

  Shavon stepped into his path. Her trim frame lolled back on her right hip, arms folded. She stood about half way to the door and giggled. “What’re you trying to do, old wretch? Run home to your fat woman now? Are you that faint at the sight of blood?”

  “I’m just trying to get to the door, sister.” Gorias planted his feet square to his shoulders. His hood fell back and a great mound of graying locks spilled out around his craggy, long face. He loomed over her, cutting an imposing figure.

  Mitre Stillwell put down his pitcher. The tube fell from his lips.

  “Goodness,” Shavon cooed, unafraid, her left boot heel tapping. “You must’ve been quite a man…once.”

  “Yeah, well, it still works, even if my back doesn’t, much,” Gorias said as he put coins on the bar, wearing no expression of concern for the killer in front of him.

  Shavon didn’t move as she pouted. “You’re either courageous or too stupid to realize your danger, elderly fool. Do you know who I am?”

  “Does it matter? The whorehouse is down the street.”

  “You’re drunk.” She laughed.

  “And you are really ignorant, sister. Funny thing is, though, I’ll be sober come daylight.”

  Her eyes flared and the tavern drew a collective breath. “Why you insane duffer, do you know who is going to slay you?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Gorias glanced at Ezran Gavreel. “Deliverance will come.”

  A few in the bar spit their drinks at his words, and Mitre coughed loud, almost laughing, but she ignored all of this and went on to say, “I have traveled far and wide. I have killed everything that walks or crawls! I have…”

  In the middle of her great boast, Gorias hunched over. While he braced himself on his knees, no one paid this much mind, not even Shavon. So weak went his movements, surprise took her completely when he dropped to the floor like a cat, seized the long straw covered mesh under her boots, and yanked back. The crude rug ripped from under her pointed heels and she flipped backwards. After her rump rolled over her head, she hit the floor on all fours, stunned, braced, and laughing at what happened.

  But as she fell, he reached his hands just under his waist to the bottom of the stiff backpack. From out of slots came two blades, each near to three feet in length. Since he stood quite tall, and his pack so long, he easily concealed the two sword scabbards. When he stepped forward he swished the swords, lancing the smoke in the air then driving them down on either side of Shavon’s braced form. The blades sliced clean through her arms at the elbow joints.

  She slammed these bloody stumps into the floor, gasping in shock. The rest of the bar hissed a name that made her look up at her slayer.

  “La Gaul!”

  Over her towered the ancient warrior, the fable himself, Gorias La Gaul. His eyes stared at her more in pity than anger. Her crimson blood dripped from legendary blades that gleamed brighter than steel should. She watched him turn the blades down and hold the two swords like daggers, knuckles side by side.

  “You’re…not real. I thought…you were dead…” she choked, tears streaming from her brown eyes.

  “Not quite yet, sister. Do you think I’ve lived so long on strength alone? If you would’ve gotten old, you would’ve known to save the talking for after the fight.”

  With that he planted his blades in her back, pinning Shavon’s heart and lungs to the wooden floor. This action made the crowd grunt then fear to breathe again. The thud rang with finality.

  While he snuffed, he broke the silence with the scuff of his boots. After he stepped on her neck and pulled his swords out, he wiped the blood on her short hair and said, “Which way is that whorehouse, Michael? It has been quite a spell since I was last visited the one in Khabnur.”

  The door to the mead hall opened and two men stepped in with drawn swords. By the insignia on their black leather coats, Gorias figured them members of the constables’ guard. At last, they answered the summons for the man injured by the barbarian emissary.

  La Gaul looked at the amazed patrons, then to the giant ogre who arose from his bench. Beyond the men from outside Gorias spied Ezran Gavreel, smiling. He never recalled seeing Ezran leave the bar.

  “Looks like I will have to go later.”

  CHAPTER II

  Magistrate

  *

  The constables allowed Gorias to mount up on his white horse and ride to the Magistrate’s office located in the castle keep. Since this Aragon barroom sat near the outer reaches of the curtain wall, a long ride lay ahead of them. Security ran very high. The sprawling city of Khabnur bustled with activity, full of folk from afar. Many were mercenaries, he concluded, by their weapons and light armor, in town for the brewing war. There is money to be had and not much work to be done, he thought, so the rabble who thought they could fight came. He felt certain the nominal show up fee gathered quite a few of them.

  Diverse races and warriors of varying degrees stumbled out of saloons. Gorias looked down from his mount on the gaggle of humanity and made note of their number, if not their ability. Many carried a khopesh, a short bronze blade manufactured en masse just about anywhere. A crude weapon, it certainly could kill, but in the long run the sword couldn’t stand against steel or iron. Since the mercenaries hailed from diverse lands, their weapons varied. A few even sported well-dressed rapiers and broadswords so heavy they required two hands to use.

  Word that the legendary warrior arrived in the city of Khabnur spread like a plague, and since the winter lessened, many who weren’t fighters crowded the cool streets to see the fable pass by. Though hemmed in by four constables, Gorias rode his great steed with a placid face. He never commented on the muddy city, well built as it was, or the legions of urchins in the streets at such a late hour.

  Soldiers and men on the high walls or in the embrasures pointed at Gorias, a few used long scopes to get a better view. Soon every eye in the crenellated ramparts focused on him. Men staggering drunk near the pilaster reinforcement beams paused to hear the tale and look at him as he passed.

  A baritone bark of the name, “La Gaul!” broke the peculiar silence.

  The guards hesitated when they saw the gigantic form of Mitre Stillwell lumbering up the avenue. At his heels skipped the dwarfish lackey.

  Gorias assumed these guards were acquainted with the foreman of the Foundry of Syn or they wouldn’t have allowed Mitre to walk beside him.

  “Mitre Stillwell?” said Gorias with a half smile, as he waved back at a few men greeting him with bows on the nearest merlon. “It’s been decades, you red headed jackass. I didn’t recognize you out of your usual digs in the desert, swindling the s
tupid out of religious relics.”

  The ogre trudged on, running thick fingers through his thinning bowl of reddish gray locks. “So the dead walk for real, apparently not all as vampiric leeches, you wormy dog.”

  “So it seems.” He chuckled, hand resting on the pommel of the broadsword sheathed on his saddle. “You’re supervising the Foundry of weapons? That’s like bears in charge of feeding fish.”

  Mitre’s immense shoulders receded and he sneezed. “An ogre must eat, old fool. I could only defraud the religious masses in the desert for so long. My days of high or even low timed adventure are over.”

  Gorias’ focus kept to the cobblestone road ahead that led to the keep. He never looked at the giant who strode near to eye level with him as he said, “Who is the fool?” He leered at the small one at Mitre’s heels, and the dwarf registered terror then ran into an alleyway. “I wager keeping working slaves in line must be boring for you after your career of fighting and whoring.”

  With a poke of his hand to La Gaul’s spine, the ogre said, “My back has seen better times, as has yours, jackanape. Keeping tabs on chattel is easy work, and the rest of the world beats a path to my stone doorway.”

  “No matter who the customer?”

  “Wealth is wealth, hoary dog. You know my credo. That’s to never hold a belief that cannot be erased easily enough in favor of a more profitable one.”

  As he thumbed the ferrule band on his broadsword’s grip, Gorias said, “War is coming, I hear.”

  “Bah, war is life. War is like breathing and there’s no use trying to suppress it. After a while, it feels natural.”

  “I see.”

  Stillwell coughed, belched. “What’re you doing here, anyhow? When I saw that saintly bastard Ezran back in the tavern, I thought you two rode in together.”

  Gorias adjusted his back brace and said, “Unlikely.”

  “Whenever I see him, I get nervous. I don’t care for feeling nervous, La Gaul.”

  “I’m just passing through.”

  “Hah! Passing through my ass, you are.”

  “Now that would be a mean feat.”

  Even the guards laughed at this and Mitre smirked. “Really, though, you still out trying to scare up money, still relying on the good graces of the Angels to save your sorry ass at the moment of your death?”

  “Still leaning on midget lovers? They have to try less to kiss your ass that way?”

  “Fah, you’re a filthy old prick.” Mitre waved a massive hand, dismissing him. “Careful you don’t use it in the incorrect way around here. Even a legend can end up wishing he were born a woman.”

  The ogre trudged off in the direction of the billowing smoke-stacks of the Foundry. Those in the streets provided the massive figure a wide berth.

  One of the guards spoke to Gorias. “Sir, were you friends with the ogre?”

  Eyes narrowing at the guard he shrugged. “Ogre?” He said the term as if the word told a joke to him. “We got drunk at the games centuries back. Mitre wasn’t all bad then. He’s a selfish bastard. A lot of folks are. He’s a damned ogre, correct? Did you expect great manners?”

  Once the group reached the outer wall of the castle they dismounted. They gained access to the inner ward, and one of the constables whispered to his partner, “Shouldn’t we disarm him before he meets with Lira Rhan?”

  The older of the two constables eyed Gorias and said to the other man, “You’re a young pup. Go ahead and disarm him if you think you can. He isn’t under arrest.”

  Gorias raised an eyebrow, studying the tall fore building and the turrets of the castle, muttering, “Well, that’s good news. Hey, can I pass some water before we go inside? I’m not as young as I used to be and I’ve been drinking.” Not waiting for approval, he leaned his left hand on the brick wall outside the Magistrate’s office and fumbled with his trousers.

  While he relieved himself, a small man emerged from the wooden door just outside the castle’s first wall. A soft featured man, very young, he arrived dressed in a long velvet robe with an open front. His embroidered doublet under the robe showed his class if anyone missed his manners. The man did a double take as he glanced toward the spectacle of the giant warrior leaning on the wall, flanked by constables.

  “Gimme a minute, all right?” Gorias said to the constables who watched him. “I never do well with an audience.”

  “This is the renowned warrior?” the small man said to the snickering constables.

  “Step a little closer, kid, and you’ll be impressed.”

  The constables all laughed louder, but quickly straightened their expressions as the well-mannered youth shot them daggers with his gaze. He turned and went back through the wooden door.

  “Who’s the pretty punk?” Gorias straightened his trousers.

  The older constable informed him, “He’s Lemach, son of Nazor, administrator to Magistrate Lira Rhan.”

  “That’s a mouthful. Nazor? It seems like I met him years back.” He thought, One forgets after a few hundred years.

  From foot to foot, the constable shifted then nodded. “Nazor was a general and became a politician later in life.”

  Gorias rewarded him with a rich laugh. While his head lay back, he eyed the apex of the castle high above them. “Helluva fate that one, huh?”

  The constable grunted his agreement and took a nip from a small leathery flask. “I won’t argue there, sir. Lemach is a very intelligent boy, just not cut from a warrior’s cloth.”

  Gorias adjusted his manhood, winked at the constable. “Bad seeds tend to grow fast, eh? Well, if I’m not under arrest, why in the world am I here?”

  The constable motioned for him to enter. “You’ll find out soon. Incredible to meet you, sir.” The man offered Gorias his hand.

  La Gaul clasped the smaller man’s gloved hand with firmness and shook it. He then turned to the doorway.

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you, sir, but I have read about you my entire life and heard so many ballads about you.” The constable spoke with reverential respect. “I never knew you were real. I thought you a fable.”

  “Just because I never got myself killed doesn’t make me a legend. I appreciate the friendly talk, though. Yeah, usually the folks that meet me want to kill me.”

  Confusion spread on the law man’s face. “Why is that?”

  “Think about it, son. All of those bard’s tales you hear in a tavern. The fella that kills the old legend is remembered, too. Even if he’s barely able to let go of his mother’s tit, his name lives on.”

  “They say you talk to angels.”

  His hand on the hilt of a dagger in his belt, he smirked. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Gorias walked in as the constable called out, “I curse the man who slays you!”

  He mumbled, “I’m still looking for him.”

  The passageway through the connecting stone hall felt close and dreary to him, but the way soon opened up into a longer chamber. The wooden features on the walls and long tables denoted a place where someone meted out justice. He recalled the scaffold he’d ridden under on the way in, so he understood evenhandedness still traveled swift in the land of Shynar.

  Lemach approached him as he stopped to rest in the flickering torchlight. “Lira Rhan will be here momentarily.”

  “Fine, son of Nazor.”

  The youth’s brows lowered as he took in Gorias’ hearty smile then folded his arms, fine tippet strains hanging from his elbows. “You knew my father?”

  “I knew a lot of folks, kid.”

  “I’m the administrator here, or castellan if you prefer.”

  “Well, good for you. It suits you well.”

  “I am the youngest of Nazor’s sixty-seven children.”

  Gorias moved one of the wooden chairs out from the nearest table and sat. With a wince he said, “I’m happy f
or you. Why did he stop having kids?”

  “My mother died,” Lemach replied curtly, his expression mask-like.

  “I figured maybe she grew tired of being a mother.”

  Lemach raised an eyebrow. “More like Nazor was weary of being a father. He killed her in a rage.”

  Hands on his knees, Gorias sighed. “You’ll have that, I guess.”

  “The world is getting over populated,” Lemach said, still emotionless, his nose raising as if smelled those of which he spoke. “These tramps in the street produce like brood sows, one a year. The more rabble that breath, the stupider they become. That is why you get followers of an evil man like Nosmada.”

  “I thought the followers of Nosmada were just resurrected dead folks.” The constables in the chamber grinned at his jest. Gorias appreciated the fact that these arisen dead, or leeches as many called them, never seemed to appear again once they gorged themselves on blood and disappeared to the south into Nosmada’s citadel.

  Undeterred by the taunt, Lemach said, “Either that or brain dead youths theorizing death and darkness are the answer. They submit to Nosmada’s forbidding will.”

  Gorias reflected that he could understand why many youths joined Nosmada’s army. The pay was good and the discipline was something they never received from a parent. They were the trained troops that enforced whatever agenda Nosmada had, leeches present to not.

  Lemach smiled. “Did you know, though, that some of them willingly take on the blood sickness to become one of his inner circle darklings?”

  Gorias nodded, brooding over the blood disease Lemach referred to, running rampant in the world. No one had a cure. “There’re a lot of stupid folks, Lemach. They need an identity. They think being a member of the living dead is great, or a means of being powerful, or different. Hell, they’re Nosmada’s kin one way or another.” He then fell silent, wondering why Nosmada’s army currently marched north. What was it that they desired thereabouts in Shynar?