Blood and Steel: Legends of La Gaul, Volume 1 Page 5

  “No one,” Ambiorix sighed, though remaining on guard. “They desired this duty themselves. No one compelled them. Each volunteered, to break one so pure for the god Marduk.”

  Hands trembling, mouth working, and no words appearing, Gorias was flustered at the idea of it all. At last he spoke, saying, “This Nephilum, this Marduk should die, father.”

  Amused by his son’s scarlet anger, Ambiorix asked, “Why? You think what he does evil?”

  “I don’t know if it is evil,” said Gorias, eyes burning in the evening like suns. “But it cannot be right.”

  Ambiorix laughed shortly. “By who’s measuring stick?”

  Gorias gritted his teeth and gripped his sword handle. “Mine!”

  The auburn-haired youth ran up the steps, dodging dead women like a boy in a game, ignoring his father’s commanding voice.

  Ambiorix’s heart boiled in his chest, admiring the child’s pluck, yet wanting to beat him bloody at the same instance.

  Gorias hit the entrance to the grotto, somewhat stunned that the heavy wooden door of polished wood actually gave way under his weight. Gorias never saw what his father did; that the handle was off. Ambiorix barely had time to note the metal handle, melted like candle wax, before he jumped for his son.

  Ambiorix caught Gorias and they went flying through a set of velvety curtains. No floor came up to greet them as they tumbled down stone steps. The boy cried in pain and Ambiorix swore, but when they both realized where they were, and what was happening, they fell silent. Any bruises from their fall would be the least of their worries.

  Countless candles and a few stylish tin lanterns lit the large circular chamber. They had no trouble seeing the two huge, muscle-bound men in white loincloths facing off against a smaller figure. These substantial men sweated heavily, shaven bodies gleaming in the candlelight. Between them stood a slender woman, also with a shaven head, but wearing a spare white tunic that barely covered her midsection.

  Clothed in a dusty cloak and cowl, the small man cursed at the three opposing him. The words weren’t slang for dung or sexual copulation. Rather, they held the names of demons, and what the shouter wanted them to do to his opponent’s mothers.

  Still on the floor, Gorias curled into his father’s arms and whispered, “The Elder Hasan?”

  The old one looked at them, but never reacted in anger or fear. If anything a twisted smile played on the lips of the withered man as he reached toward his left arm. This limb, in a sling as if broken, shone chalky white. Hasan gripped his left ring finger and ripped it off, a savage grin shining in his beard. Only dust dropped from the point of removal and the old one made a fist with his right hand.

  The bald woman glared at Hasan with terror in her face, and cartwheeled away from her servants.

  Rearing back, the Elder cast a fragment of the finger, now mostly dust, at the large bald man to his right. As the man reacted to the dust in his face, arms up, Hasan repeated the motion towards the other man, with a more backhand swipe.

  In unison, the two servants of Marduk started to scream in a higher-pitched tone than Ambiorix thought possible for these thuggish brutes. “They must be Eunuchs,” he muttered, starting to pull Gorias to his knees and looking for the door.

  However, Hasan and the two screaming men kept moving around the circle, blocking Ambiorix and Gorias’ departure. The two Eunuchs inadvertently obstructed their escape as they fell into fits. Their flesh seemed to sprout hives, and they scratched themselves bloody.

  Hasan lost concern with the two struggling men and raised his right arm to point at the bald woman. Her lips peeled into a snarl as her hands raised and glowed. She threw a ball of light at Hasan, but it seemed to drop at his feet, off target. The ball unraveled, showing itself to be a large, burgundy-colored spider. Another projectile from the priestess of Marduk also missed Hasan, as if an invisible shield protected him. This ball bounced, hit one of the Eunuchs, and transformed into a scorpion. It struck the big, bloody man, and he shouted even more.

  “You cannot overcome my mind,” Hasan sneered at her. “Give me what I desire and I shall go.”

  “You cannot have him,” the priestess screamed, retreating toward another velvety curtain across the room. “Through him we will gain even more power.”

  Ambiorix looked at the windows, all incredibly narrow and not large enough to fit a barbarian through. He retreated away from Hasan fast, pulling his son by the elbow and scalp.

  Hasan laughed and pointed with his right hand. “You should never have removed him from his resting place, you witch. I claimed him first, so he is mine. Your biggest mistake was not making sure I was dead back in Chanoch.”

  The priestess’ hands smoldered and she snarled, “That’s true, old conjure-man. I shall remedy my mistake!”

  Ambiorix and his son kept retreating, but were running out of space. The dueling magicians never acknowledged them. Ambiorix wanted to make a quick break for the door, but saw the dead bodies of the Eunuchs criss-crossed on the steps and thought better of the action. If he fell or stepped wrong, it would be their doom.

  Hasan retorted to the woman, “Your powers cannot touch me once my mind is focused. Go on, try again.”

  Once more, she slashed at the air, throwing orbs of luminosity at the Elder. Again, they fell to his feet. One glob changed into a large hornet and the other into an ivory colored cockroach. Neither creature could penetrate the power of the Elder.

  Gorias hissed, “We are doomed, father!”

  Ambiorix grabbed him by the throat so hard the boy could not breathe. With great power in his tone, but a hardly audible voice, Ambiorix declared, “We are still alive, boy, and there’s always a chance if that’s so.”

  Suddenly, the two Thulites couldn’t maneuver anywhere else. They were very near to the next curtain, the area where the priestess seemed intent to guard. She faced them and her eyes blazed. Hands radiant, she reared back.

  Ambiorix stood and roared, determined to die fighting, great sword off his back and in his hand.

  When she cast her spheres of light at him, he parried the balls away, but the impact on his sword sent the heavy weapon flying. Gorias stood up beside his disarmed father and saw the woman’s hands flame again.

  Ambiorix saw what the priestess did not. Even as she prepared to attack the barbarians, Ambiorix noticed Hasan grinning. He beheld the elderly man break off another joint from one of his petrified fingers and reach back to throw.

  Ambiorix grabbed his son and dived through the curtains. As he tumbled into the next dimly-lit chamber, he heard the priestess scream. Truly, Hasan had her dead to rights. Hurriedly trying to find an escape route, and coming up empty, Ambiorix feared the Elder had them dead as well.

  “But he doesn’t want us,” Ambiorix muttered, looking at the center of the chamber.

  He saw the same thing that Hasan did when he entered the room; the stone form of Marduk, the Nephilum created by an interbreeding with the demonic host. A giant of nearly nine feet in height, Marduk lay back in repose, naked. His rigid manhood was rendered in a curve, aiming at his head, but away from his flesh.

  “Where have you hidden the first Son of God?” Hasan asked calmly, not addressing anyone. He looked the chamber over, and then focused on the rock outline of Marduk. Under him was a platform, or so it appeared, of rectangular stone. Hasan knelt by the box and knocked on it with his knuckles. “So transparent are you fools,” he mumbled. He stood and ran his good hand under the lip of the platform that held the shape of Marduk.

  Ambiorix held his breath and looked at the drapes. Fifteen feet away, he did not like his chances.

  Hasan bent, then pushed up on the lip of the platform, grunting. Exhausted, he stepped back. Frustration filled his curses. Abruptly, he looked at them and said, “You! Barbarians! Help me with this effort.”

  “What say you?” Ambiorix stammered, surprised by
the request.

  “All of my power cannot lift this weight, nor can I melt the stone away without damaging what lies inside. You see this thing here, the form of Marduk? This was not carved by the hand of any man. Come closer, savages, see the result of a bastard son of the gods trying to mate with one of his half sisters, a gorgon. He was turned to stone as he drove into her.” He gestured at the erect member of stone. “It still breaks the virgins who volunteer to be the vassal for their god.”

  “Wodan,” Gorias whispered, eyes large and focused on the story Hasan told.

  “You see the little gutters under him that lead down to the chalice?” the Elder questioned, as he pointed. “That is to catch the fresh virgin blood for sacrifice.”

  Though they did come closer, Ambiorix still eyed the door. “It’s an abomination,” Ambiorix said plainly.

  Hasan tilted his head to one side and sniffed. “I care little for their practices, either, savage. They have hidden what I want under the plate here. I cannot lift it. Help me elevate this.”

  Ambiorix didn’t answer, still stunned.

  Hasan looked grim. “Shall I put this in terms you can comprehend? Help me or I will kill you both.”

  His shock faded, Ambiorix smirked. “I think you shall slay us anyway.”

  Hasan pointed to the other room. “There is gold and jewels aplenty out there, now unguarded by the Eunuchs. You can have it all, for that isn’t why I’m here. Just aid me and you can go. Wait any more, and I will kill your son to see if that makes you progress faster.”

  Ambiorix frowned and reached under the lip of the platform holding Marduk. He then switched, placing his shoulders under it, pushing up with his back. Stone ground on granite, and the edge moved.

  “Yes,” Hasan seethed with great anticipation. “You are doing it, barbarian. What strength you have!”

  Unsure if the act would save them, Ambiorix put all of his power into removing the lid. Shoving it across and then up, the weight tilted and he raised the platform. Marduk turned as if rolling over in bed, and tumbled off. Free of the weight that crashed to the stone floor, Ambiorix flew up from the ground, tossing the plate into the air. It flipped over and landed on Marduk, smashing like glass.

  Hasan and Gorias moved in different directions; Hasan back a bit, and then forward, and Gorias around the side, near the impact point of the lid.

  Sucking air and turning to face the result of his labors, Ambiorix again eyed the curtains, but for a moment. Since his son was out of arms’ reach, his first instinct vanished. Soon, he found himself stepping closer, beside the Elder Hasan, peering into the oblong container. Serving as a pedestal for Marduk’s deflowering center, the stone box was a repository for a secret of the dark priesthood.

  “What is that?” Ambiorix found himself asking, not believing his own words.

  Hasan’s portentous eyes widened, as the faint luster filled the box. “Look onto that face, so sculpted and perfect. See the ultimate face of humanity, barbarian? That is the face of perfection, and the ultimate visage of clay come alive.”

  The illuminated figure looked like a statue, but not in the same manner of Marduk. If anything, these manly figures appeared almost animated, yet covered in a fine layer of dust.

  “This is what you desire?” Ambiorix asked, not knowing what to think of the likeness in front of him; save for it was the exact image from his dreams that spoke to him.

  Hasan carried no malice in his manner or words as he said, “Yes, this is the first son of God himself, barbarian; the man formed of the dust of the ground, with the ultimate God’s own hands. This is Adam, his own self.”

  Ambiorix’s eyes narrowed. “He wasn’t afflicted by the gorgons, was he?”

  Hasan grinned. “You are a clever man, savage. Adam is dead. He died long ago naturally, and his form has yet to rot. You see, we all will meet our fate in the earth, all of us will return to the clay of creation. With this one, he is trifling a bit longer. His flesh was meant to last forever. Perhaps the Creator has trouble letting go of such a perfect face, eh?”

  Ambiorix stepped back one pace, but never ran. “I care not for the value you place in a dead body.”

  Hasan smiled, not looking at Ambiorix. “I grant you life, barbarian. While bloodthirsty in my trade, I can be magnanimous in victory. Take your boy and go. The purposes for this great magic will be known to you in time.”

  Ambiorix turned to look, and didn’t see his son until it was too late. The Elder’s face contorted just as a sickening pop resonated in the chamber. Frozen in place, Hasan shivered, and then his body lost control. His sphincter let go, as his left arm fell from his sling, turning to powder as it bounced on the stone floor.

  Gorias stepped into view, holding the article he drove into the skull of the Elder; the broken-off stone member of Marduk. Gorias stepped closer to the Elder, and whispered in his ear, “You are wrong, swine, I’m not a boy.” He stabbed the stone bludgeon into the skull of the old man once again, and this time brains spewed into the box. “I am a man.” Gorias then grabbed the Elder by the buttocks and threw him into the stone box. A cloud of dust erupted from inside and Ambiorix yanked his son back. As the debris settled, they both peeked inside.

  The body of Adam, the all-father, was no more. Only a pile of dust and the corpse of the Elder Hasan remained inside.

  Ambiorix looked at his son. Gorias smiled, content with his actions. Slapping the rock phallus from his son’s grip, Ambiorix grabbed him by the forearm and they left the inner sanctum of Marduk.

  While Gorias looked back, Ambiorix did not. It was not the body of Adam, the man rumored to father all of humanity, that disturbed the barbarian. Ambiorix never confessed what made him afraid; the fact that Adam was missing his left arm.

  ***

  Epilogue

  While Ambiorix and Gorias stayed outside the Grotto, the chief told Garretson and the rest to sack the first chamber of Marduk. “If you go beyond the curtain, I cannot guarantee your life,” Ambiorix warned. “I do not plan to load my mount up with great riches.”

  Garretson laughed, and then asked, “Why is this?”

  Ambiorix looked into the distance, as if he could see the person on his mind in the darkness. “Because I want the horse to have fresh legs when we catch up to the caravan. I want this horse to have plenty of balls left, when I drag that little bastard from the caravan to death.”

  However, Ambiorix did not attain this desire. When they caught up with the caravan the next day, they found them all dead, consumed by a plague that made their intestines loop from their jaws. The Thulite chief settled for spitting on Cyrus’s dead body before they left. From the trail of bodies, it was obvious where the problem emanated from.

  That night, when they lay down to sleep, Ambiorix imagined the finger of Hasan bursting, and slaying the entire caravan in their absence.

  Covering his mighty frame from the chill, Ambiorix dropped into a deep slumber.

  He did not dream.

  THE END

  Author and Finisher of Our Flesh

  “Life isn’t fair. It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.”

  -WILLIAM GOLDMAN

  Have a care, Hjordis,” the burly soldier near the door of the tavern cautioned another who sported the stallion insignia of the Transalpinian military. “It isn’t wise to taunt the largest man in the bar.”

  Hands on his lean hips, Hjordis grinned through a neatly cut goatee at the red haired man who spoke, then back at the hirsute individual at the corner table. This huge man, who weaved in his chair due to the effects of the empty flagons of whiskey around him, appeared in his own world, muttering names, his long mane of hair twitching as he drummed gnarled fingers. Though his cloak lay twisted askew across the chair to his left, the rough warrior clearly wore intricately plated armor, sporting a blue tinge.

  “Why worry about this one, General Thyn
nes?” Hjordis asked with arrogance in his tone, chin raised. “We come to recruit the fabled Ingaevone warrior Gorias, the King of all Bastards, and all we find is a big drunk, too soused to hold a sword, much less use one. He looks fallen from his days as a Lord.”

  Thynnes’ right hand remained on the pommel of the blade affixed to his belt as he looked at the shaky figure. In the smoky bar, the former and current taunts of Hjordis made the eyes of the Ingaevone snap up with attentiveness and aim toward them. Though a soldier his entire life, and in the company of the King’s champion, Thynnes’ stomach churned at the wolfish eyes of the well traveled mercenary, Gorias. The Ingaevones’ armor was blood-stained, and the boots grinding the floorboards of the tavern gaped at the edges, well-worn from travel. Thynnes refused to let his guard down.

  Hjordis threw back his brown hair and laughed before saying, “I bet you a skin of wine he cannot even get those famous swords off his back, he’s so drunk.” At his words, several patrons looked from side to side and moved away from Gorias.

  Thynnes mused, “The blades that came from Angel’s wings? His armor flailed from the flesh of a wyrmling dragon?”

  “I’ve heard the ballads, too, Thynnes. This is the famed fighter from the Caucaus Mountains, slayer of Akhensobek of Kemet, deflowerer of a thousand virgins?”

  “Have a care,” said Thynnes, his free hand on his white beard. “We came to enlist his aide, not to incur his wrath.”

  With a savage snarl, Hjordis proclaimed, “I’m enough to lead this force into the outer lands unto the gate of the Elder Gods, not some reputed warrior from the campfires. The King of Transalpina wasn’t wise to send us here.” The clientele of the tavern drew a breath and the bald bar tender blinked, mouth open at the proper fighter. The champion roared back, “Shut up, you pansies! I’m the nephew of the bloody King, I am! I’ll prove my worth and kill these children of Cthulhu that threaten to assail us…”