Thrall Page 8

  *

  In the fortress of Kanoch, Nosmada frowned at Zillian’s caldron. He peered over at his guard and confidant, Lannon. The brooding Lord found none of the answers he sought. He yawned, but never covered his mouth. He looked back at the Well of Sorrows.

  “De Balm failed yet again,” Nosmada grumbled, but his voice carried no surprise. “And I think Gorias is correct: De Balm lied even unto me. That’s quite wicked, but fitting for one such as he, really.”

  Zillian limped around the caldron as bleary images of the exterior of the whorehouse and tavern faded. “It didn’t surprise me that whelp Robyn prepared for his demise well enough to resist your spell.” She clutched at her chest, winced, and then said, “Such lust for power is inherent in his kind.”

  Nosmada shrugged then looked in her direction. “Lust for power will break most alliances, Zillian.”

  “It was all I could do to conjure that image of the outside area, Lord.”

  “Bah.” Nosmada dismissed her words with the wave of a meaty hand. “You call it magic because the blood sickness makes them come unto me. Calculated reason is why it exists, and pure power on my part.” He paused as his hands turned to fists. With a dour expression, he faced the rocky walls around them before stepping into the emerald light emitted by the caldron. His features showed clearly, and Zillian gazed at him without flinching. Lannon swallowed, staying against the wall. Nosmada took a few steps away from them and ran his hand over the right side of his face, up to his forehead over the gruesome disfigurement. Few would see this indentation offhand due to his long hair.

  Zillian shot Lannon a look and said quietly, “Supremacy and power is what it is all about isn’t it, Lord?” She cleared her craggy throat as Nosmada faced her, hands behind his back. “He held those soul crystals for a reason. We never knew De Balm even had them. The little fool was plotting something calamitous of his own, dividing his faithfulness to you, Lord.”

  “I gathered that. Loyalty is a difficult thing to tie up. At least the rest of those carrying the blood are just vessels who don’t challenge the decree. How De Balm defied me is a mystery, certainly, but I’m not all-powerful. Given enough time, most wizards can solve complicated riddles. The leeches still serve the spell and my purpose. Better mindless fools than rabble all of a different mind.”

  “They failed to kill La Gaul.”

  Nosmada shrugged, his left leg moving as if he were about to take a step, yet he remained still. “I expected no less. Lannon, bring me wine.”

  Nodding, he exited.

  “Gorias will try to stop the young ones from raising Wyss from the grave,” Nosmada said. “This is the task they have given him--Rhan and her lot. The Cult of Wyss don’t have warriors, though they have guards. They’ll fall easily to the grandson and the fable.”

  “What has the old warrior to gain by all of this? He’s far from a virtuous man,” Zillian said, laughing.

  Nosmada raised an eyebrow as Lannon returned with a large flagon of wine. “La Gaul is a primal force. He goes as he feels led.” Nosmada drank, and his eyes flared wide open as he appreciated the wine. “He probably seeks to straighten out wrongs from the hands of his grandson, if I were to guess. I’d never believe he’s still living if I didn’t see it in the caldron, but that’s of no matter. Raise Tolin on the viewer, dear, when you have the strength, but make haste.”

  Zillian shambled to a small cage nearby and reached inside. She pulled out a plump cat and stroked its fine yellow fur. With surprising force, she snapped its neck and dug her long fingernails deep in its guts. Nosmada never moved a tad as Zillian ravaged the cat and deposited it in the caldron. Lannon’s mouth tightened but he said nothing. The blaze of the soupy surface bathed them in aqua light and the bowl filled with the harsh visage of Tolin, general of Nosmada’s military forces, nearing the region south of La Gaul.

  “Lord Nosmada,” Tolin rasped in a deep voice, his dull tone close to inhuman. That was well, Nosmada thought, since Tolin no longer held the soul of a man in his flesh. When Tolin’s cave-like mouth opened, Nosmada half expected flame to erupt. The long, imperious face of the general was made all the more hideous by the taunt, grayish skin pulled across his enormous skull, flanked by long dark hair.

  “Your army will reach the foundry of Syn presently?”

  “Within days, lord,” Tolin said, curiosity flowing from his dire, orange eyes. Keeping as still as sandstone, the general gave no clues to his thoughts via his expressions. “You know this. Is there a difficulty?”

  “Perhaps,” Nosmada said, voice steady. Lannon moved so he didn’t have to see Tolin any more. “Acquiring the weapons of Syn will strengthen our forces, thus aiding our purpose against the Northern barbarians.” Nosmada explained what happened with Robyn, the soul jewels, and the presence of La Gaul.

  At the latter name, Tolin’s nostrils flared and his eyes gleamed with fanatical intensity. “Gorias…is here?”

  Zillian gasped at the expression of hatred in Tolin and stepped back from the caldron. Her body quaked and she tried to stand firm. Lannon receded even farther from the room, fully filling up the doorway.

  Unaffected by this, Nosmada said, “Yes, your old nemesis is near At the Foundry of Syn even now. There’s great mischief afoot concerning Wyss and—”

  “The Blue Dragon,” Tolin growled, brows lowering. “Your words are appreciated, dark Nosmada. Our sentries have claimed to hear sounds like those made by dragons. The Cult of the Dragon has completed a program, it seems. It is like a predator sniffing for food, the sound. The elders in our camp claim this is the sound we hear from distant Dundayin.”

  “Hmm, near the great dried sea and ruins of Larak?”

  “That is correct, Lord.”

  “The ensuing bloodbath with our enemies from the North must be remembered,” Nosmada cautioned Tolin. “We cannot be distracted by too many factors. It’s important the carriers of the blood reach my citadel. It’s imperative you attain the weapons of Syn, slay the barbarians, and return their blood unto me.”

  Seething, Tolin gritted his teeth. “I will not forget the duty I hold. Those louts of the North cannot be taken lightly. Yet, we must stop this new factor.”

  “Raising Wyss from the dead will only complicate matters for us,” Nosmada declared. “La Gaul…”

  Tolin held out his hands. Heavy leather gauntlets held the digits in check, fingers far too long for a normal man. “I can feel something is wrong. I feel my olden soul, that which was birthed in this flesh, now residing in another host.”

  Nosmada frowned, noting the terror in Zillian and Lannon. “That’s of no regard, Tolin. You gladly took on this new life and mission, no?”

  “Indeed,” he replied, curling his fingers into fists, any pretense of tranquility now gone.

  “Then we must decide on our course of action.” Nosmada thought for a moment. “From what we gather, Gorias and those with him head toward the bogs where the Cult of Wyss has gone.”

  “Our forces are still days away from the foundry of Syn,” Tolin said, fuming. “Intelligence reports the forces of the Northern barbarians are on the march towards there as well.”

  Nosmada glanced at Zillian then said to the caldron, “That’s what the mage here has told me. Glad to see your pickets are confirming her words.”

  Tolin turned away then turned back. “What if my pickets or a small group were to ride ahead of our army? Such a small force could cover the ground fast and intercept La Gaul and the Cult of Wyss.”

  His features brightening, Nosmada nodded. “Excellent idea. Send your best. La Gaul is old, but he will—”

  “I want him alive, Lord.”

  Nosmada frowned. “Now is not the time to plot common revenge.”

  Tolin’s eyebrows arched. “You speak to me of revenge? If not for the desire for revenge, you would not be planning what you are, Lord Nosmada.”

&nbs
p; Zillian drew back from the caldron, a feared of the reaction of her master. Nosmada simply smirked. “And yet, it must be. Send your force.”

  The image in the caldron faded and he turned away from Zillian. The withered crone hobbled to her reclining couch to collapse. Looking at his mage, spent of energy, Nosmada said, “I will send up food.”

  “Many thanks,” she croaked, touching her chest as she closed her eyes.

  Lannon moved to one side as Nosmada turned to the door, stopping abruptly. He caught his reflection in the distant caldron. However small the image, he touched the right side of his face. Swallowing hard, he left the chamber.

  “He was a great warrior once,” Zillian muttered.

  “La Gaul?”

  “Nosmada. He probably still is a mighty warrior. He never seems to age…” She opened her eyes and gazed at her withered hand, then clutched her chest again. “All of the world grows more dank and dies, yet he endures unchanged.”

  “Can he attain what he desires?”

  Zillian’s words grew sparse as she fell into sleep. “We will see. For everything there must be an ending.”

  *****

  As he walked down the line of supply wagons, General Tolin’s mind dwelt far from his troopers. The divisions of his large force rested, but stood at attention when he passed. All of them were armed for their appropriate sector in the army, but with inferior weapons. He looked at the mobile siege engines they brought along and thought of the tasks before them.

  One of his trusted captains stepped up to Tolin and saluted.

  “Sir, shall we cut some riders from the cavalry and go about your mission?”

  The dour visage of the general turned toward the soldier and away from the covered trebuchet. “Six out of a few hundred horsemen will suffice for our chosen purpose.”

  Captain Karter swiped a hand down his trim black beard. “Six will be plenty, General, but perhaps an additional six will insure against any mistakes. We don’t know exactly what awaits us.”

  “I appreciate your confidence,” Tolin’s said, placing his hands on his belt. “My own rage will be sufficient, but you are correct. I would prefer the company of you and Tubal at least.”

  The dark haired captain nodded toward the line of men at attention. A thick built man made for fighting took a step from the line. His head was shaved, but his beard flowed blond and bushy. Trooper Tubal turned to make further selections to accompany them.

  Along lines of men and horses, Tolin and Karter walked. “Once we are armed well from the foundry, the army will be unstoppable.”

  Tolin watched the distant eastern mountains. “We are better trained than any army on this planet.” He pulled on the edges of his gloves and went on to say, “Stone flints and inferior metals will be cast aside for proper steel at the foundry. The divisions of pike-men and infantry will fight better with stronger weapons.”

  “Combined with our training, we’ll not be stopped.”

  Tolin gave a nod. “Certainly not by an army of barbarian maniacs wiping their behinds on bushes.”

  When a young attendant brought General Tolin his mount, the hulking leader searched the animal then stalked to his tent. Returning to the line of troops, he carried a small wooden box. This dark box shone heavily polished. He strapped the tiny container near his bedroll. While he did so, the common troopers looked away from him, but Captain Karter stood near.

  “La Gaul.” Tolin nearly let a smile break his dark, craggy face as he smoothed his gloved hands over the embossed saddle. “I am overjoyed he is not dead.”

  Tubal’s green eyes glanced at Karter, but he said nothing.

  Captain Karter completed the thoughts in the general’s mind. “Very good, sir. I know you would be disappointed if another hand slew him.”

  Tolin by no means acknowledged this as truth, but his agreement was obvious in his body language. Confidence, strength, and power surged in the big man as he climbed onto the horse.

  General Tolin joined the dozen warriors Tubal drew off from the cavalry. They mounted up as well and headed out toward the northeast.

  On their best horses, the skilled fighters drove across the plains towards the land of Shynar. The mounts would probably be ridden to death, Tolin surmised, but their death was the least of his worries compared with the pleasure revenge would supply. New horses could be found, he reasoned. All he could see was the coming night beyond the daylight. All he could see was blood.

  *****

  The foursome rode hard for the rest of the night and the better part of the day. The structured skyline and marble domes of Khabnur were behind them fast. Outside the city limits, countryside rolled in gentle slopes. Empty fields awaited the serfs, for most of the land ran too rugged to plant. In the distance the hills humped into larger mountains, but that would not be an obstacle for them. They rode toward a series of scant forests, away from the heavy savannahs of the south-lands.

  Stopping every so often to shake off the billowing dust and to let the horses rest, Gorias said to Maddox, “At least they travel well.”

  Maddox ran a hand through his thick hair, looked at Tammas and Kayla. “I suppose.”

  The old man pointed in the distance. “One can see forever out here in the clear. Glad the damned leeches stay in while the sun is out, eh? There’s a slave train headed this way, look. I think that’s what the line of slow moving travelers is, anyway.”

  Maddox agreed, almost standing in the same pose as his grandfather. “Yes, they make frequent runs down to Nosmada’s citadel and other spots. They come from afar, the damned slavers.”

  Gorias gestured at Tammas and inquired of his grandson, “If ya don’t mind me asking, how did ya get that punk kid affixed to your leg?”

  “He’s a nice fellow.”

  “Nice?” Gorias said the word like it had leprosy and even spat to show what he thought of the title. “The kid told me he never killed a man before today. That surprises me more than his virgin line, frankly. All the niceties in the world can’t cover your ass in a damned brawl, son.”

  “He’s young--barely twenty-two years old.”

  Between drinks from his skin of wine, Gorias said, “He seems younger. Perhaps if you dried him off behind his ears a tad he would look older?”

  Maddox stretched, massaging his lower back. “I’m sure he never had a life like your youth, Grandfather. He grew up sheltered.”

  “Was he high born?”

  “The opposite, in fact. His mother was a prostitute, and he doesn’t know who his father was.”

  “You’ll have that with whores.”

  Maddox nodded as he watched Tammas doing the splits to stretch his body out. “I guess that’s why he knows so many songs. He grew up over taverns and whorehouses, listening to ballads. His mother oppressed him, held him down, kept him from the world.” He smiled, not so much at the bizarre body moves Tammas performed but at the insipid expression of Kayla toward the bard. “Kind of strange, being what she was, she kept any of the world from her son. We met in a tavern. He pitched in to help me when no one else would after a few toughs came after me. Nimble little sucker, I grant.”

  “What about Kayla?”

  “What’s to tell?” Maddox said, turning away from their traveling companions. “She’s the daughter of a powerful woman and grew up in a world of powerful men. She lacks a male organ and fights to get the respect of those who have them. Kayla likes to play rough. Like any kid who grew up in a castle, learning to fight, she seems eager to put it to the test. Kayla has more balls than most men I know, Grampa.”

  “And you got near her because of me?”

  Maddox smiled, his features aglow. “You’re a great help getting sex.”

  “Thanks, but a boy as handsome as you shouldn’t need too much aid.”

  “Oh, I don’t need help getting women, but being your grandson seals it
. However, being Maddox La Gaul carries a curse as well as a blessing. Quite a few men want me dead out of spite or just to say they did it, understand? This has made me a better combatant out of necessity. That’s why I never tell anyone my last name anymore and why Lira didn’t know my identity.”

  “I see.”

  “They say the world is going to end.”

  “Who are they, anyway?”

  “Folks, necromancers. Hell, everyone I know says they hear the world will end soon. I figure you have been all over it. What do you think?”

  Gorias exhaled and rested back on his right hip. “I wish it would hurry up, sometimes.”

  “I wish my father were dead.”

  “Yeah, so do I. You see? Not everything I ever did was glorious.”

  “I just wish he didn’t exist anymore…”

  Gorias watched his shadow on the ground growing longer as orange light stretched over the planet. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Do you know this guy Brock who leads the barbarians Rhan thinks are lurking to the north of us?”

  “I knew a fellow by that name centuries ago. He died rather well, if memory serves, but I wasn’t there to see it. This must be his son.”

  “Was he a great warrior?”

  Gorias smirked, spat. “He had his moments, but his folk see him as a god. Yet, a god can die, huh? One would think that such a thing would mar his legacy, but not. Death is overrated. Life can seem pointless, but one must make it count.”

  “Wyss’ life will count if he’s remembered as such? I don’t understand it.”

  “Wyss deserves to stay dead. I don’t car if I’m forgotten after I’m gone. It isn’t about fame. If the time ever comes to make a difference in the world and I turn my back on it, I deserve to burn forever.”

  They moved on again for a spell. After the day started to die, Gorias ordered his group to stop and rest at a small creek near the bogs of Cielo.

  Tammas stepped close, haltingly. “Cielo, funny name for a place, no?”

  “Not really.” Gorias said, imparted a forbidding glance. “That was the name of one of our patriarch’s daughters. She got lost out here centuries ago and they assume she died. Cielo’s dad, well, he salted most of the area and cursed it. Plants now grow scarce, but that was a long time ago.”