Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Page 18

  “Varg, serve the sentence. Be quick. I don’t want a lot of screaming. The men need what sleep they can get.”

  Varg nodded. A malicious smile twisted his lips. “With pleasure.”

  The demon left.

  “Thank you, Master Spy,” said Barlon. “What of our efforts in the Kingdom of Dernium?”

  “All goes well. My man there is an expert in diplomatic maneuvering. King Daggon will never join this battle.”

  “Good. You may go. Or stay and share the rest of the wine.”

  “It is late, Lord,” said Shalmuthe, gently placing his cup on the table. “I need some sleep too.”

  He left through the front tent flap. Barlon finished the wine, and another bottle besides, and then fell across the table and slept.

  #

  The next morning was cool with low hanging clouds that threatened rain. A few pockets of mist hung here and there in the slight depressions that dotted the broad plain. Barlon was in a black humor. His head pounded and he was struck with intermittent bouts of nausea. He summoned Razgoth early and then stalked around his tent waiting for his wizard to appear.

  Finally, the weary, disheveled mage ducked in through the flap.

  “Yes, sire,” he said half-heartedly.

  “About time,” snapped Barlon. “I need something for my head. It’s killing me this morning.”

  “I have little of the healing elixir left, sire.”

  “Give it to me and make some more.”

  “You know I’m no master of potions, especially healing. You may need what I have for something more serious.”

  “Shut-up and give it to me. Now!” Barlon held out his hand, demanding the potion.

  “Very well,” said the wizard, and reached into his robes to withdraw a small, almost empty, brown glass bottle.

  Barlon took the tiny vial and eagerly gulped down the contents, tossing the empty container on the table.

  “Let’s go.”

  Barlon led the way to his command post and waited while Razgoth formed the disc. Then Barlon stood on the magic platform and was slowly raised about ten feet above the ground. General Ecker rode up and stopped before Barlon who looked down at the aging military professional.

  “We’re ready,” said the General.

  “Razgoth will open their ranks. You will break through and destroy them. Sir Jarlz will lead the 3rd Brigade. They will join Lom’s troops against Petre’s men. Everyone will wait for your first strike.”

  “I hope you enjoy the view, sire,” Razgoth replied.

  “I will.”

  Razgoth mounted his waiting horse. Nervously, he checked the paraphernalia and containers in the multitude of pockets in his robe. He joined General Ecker and together they rode toward the massed troops ahead and to Barlon’s left. Barlon strained to see through the mist. Lom and Varg stood ready to the north. At the front of his new command Sir Jarlz wheeled his troops and started north to join Lom’s purple clad warriors.

  Across a narrow stretch of open plains, Barlon watched the armies of Petre and Fasoom mass in long lines of tightly formed foot soldiers. It won’t be long, thought Barlon eagerly.

  The opposing armies started toward each other like two massive lines of disciplined ants, their ranks holding a tight formation. When the two ranks to the south were almost to each other, Razgoth appeared at the front of Barlon’s legions. Barlon could not make out the gestures, but suddenly a huge ball of fire burst in the middle of Fasoom’s ranks. Even Barlon could hear the screams as men were charred to death.

  A second ball of fire erupted. And a third. General Ecker’s troops surged into the gap, forcing back the shoulders of the enemy column. Furious fighting tested men and metal, but Barlon’s black and gold clad troops routed the shocked western foot soldiers.

  To the north, Lom charged along with the 3rd Brigade. Petre’s mounted troops met the charge with the clash of steel, and like the day before, the charge of the Knights of Habichon slowed. Petre’s numbers clogged the path and it seemed a repeat of yesterday was upcoming.

  But then, Varg appeared out of the packed formation, ripping and clawing both men and horses. The Western Knights’ weak magic was useless against the demon. Their swords clanged impotently off his hard skin and he tore through their ranks thrilling to the slaughter of the brave, defenseless warriors.

  Within minutes, the Western Armies were in complete disarray. The Kings and their staff fled, racing to gain the safety of the walled city of Pogor. Barlon’s men chased the remnants of the army killing as many as possible.

  The field became a sea of blood and bodies. Many of Petre’s foot soldiers were trampled under the thundering hooves of Lom’s knights. Varg reveled in dismembering and gutting every soldier he could catch. Barlon’s triumph was complete.

  #

  Petre and Fasoom raced along the main road for Pogor. A few loyal men held with them, trying to cover their flanks, while Barlon’s mounted troops picked away at the fleeing Westerners. The small group succeeded in leaving most of Barlon’s men far to the rear. Only a handful of lightly armored cavalry kept pace. Along the way men fell, one here, one there, from each side, until, finally, now, the last of Barlon Gorth’s fast troops was unseated and killed.

  Petre looked back. “Slow down,” he said, reining in his horse. “We’ve a long way to go and I don't want to walk.”

  The few remaining men slowed their horses to a trot.

  “Where is that idiot, Daggon?” fumed Fasoom.

  “Now he’s the idiot,” said Petre.

  They rode a little farther. Up ahead a low grassy knell rose gently above the level of the plain.

  “We’ll ride to the top of that hill. From there we can see who’s following us,” said Petre.

  Silently they rode to the top of the rise and halted. Turning, they saw the distant pursuit of heavily armored horsemen galloping down the road, a cloud of dust marking their progress.

  “They’re too far back,” said Petre. “They’ll never catch us.”

  Fasoom glared off to the south. “No sign of Daggon,” he said coldly.

  Suddenly, the small group was trapped in a shimmering force dome. One of Petre’s men charged it, lance extended. The impact shattered his lance and sent him tumbling backward into the grass. The horse slammed into the invisible wall and went down stunned.

  “What is it?” asked Fasoom.

  “Some kind of magical cage,” said Petre. “If we can’t break out we’ll suffocate.”

  As they studied the dome, trying to find an opening, a thin, sandy-haired figure materialized from behind the low edge of the rise. His robes fluttered in the light breeze. Beside the mage walked a tall black caricature of evil whose red eyes gleamed with a bloodlust.

  One of Petre’s men fired an arrow at the advancing pair. It ricocheted harmlessly off the inside of the force field. Already the air was getting stale, the horses were growing restless, men desperate. Another horseman leaped from his mount and hit the barrier with clenched fists. The two kings dismounted and let their riderless horses rear and kick. Lungs pumped harder, trying to get the last bit of oxygen. Hearts raced but the blackness came and one-by-one, they all fell unconscious. Inside the dome, nothing moved.

  Only then did the barrier fade. Razgoth went immediately to the kings. Carefully examining their unconscious bodies, he revived them, administering the proper potion to each. At the same time he stripped them of swords, rings, jewelry and anything that might be used as a weapon. While Razgoth worked to keep the kings alive, Varg gleefully gutted the rest of the men and the horses, reveling in their slaughter.

  Chapter 29

  Barlon’s troops massed before the locked gates of Pogor’s massive walls. They did not set up siege engines or catapults. Instead Barlon, Varg, Razgoth and a contingent of Lom’s men marched up to the gates. In front of the procession, heavily shackled and guarded by purple clad knights, were King Fasoom and King Petre.

  “You, on the wall,” shouted Barlon from hors
eback. “Tell your city leaders to come forth and bargain for the life of your king.”

  A guard raced from the wall to deliver the message. It wasn’t long before the great gates inched open and a sullen group shuffled out to meet with Barlon. Two grizzled, stoop-shouldered old men led the way. A short, fat middle-aged man dressed in thick velvety robes followed them. Next came an honor guard and finally Barlon’s spy, Shalmuthe.

  “Gersh, who are these men?” blurted King Fasoom when he saw who came to bargain for his life. He was clubbed into silence by the guards.

  “My Lord Gorth,” began the nearest elder statesman. “We want no more war. The good people of Pogor seek only peace, prosperity and freedom to carry on trade.”

  “Then surrender the city and there will be no need for more bloodshed.”

  “Will you guarantee the safety of our citizens?”

  “Of course. This war is foolish. Throw open your city and peace will return.”

  “And the king?”

  “He will stand trial for acts of war. Most likely the good citizens of Pogor will find him guilty of a great many crimes and he will be forced to spend the rest of his life in the dungeons.”

  “He won’t be killed?”

  “Whatever the citizens decide.” Barlon smiled sweetly, waiting for Pogor’s leaders to take the bait.

  “What citizens will try our king?” questioned the second statesman.

  “Whomever you choose. Yourselves if you wish.”

  The men put their heads together, a short exchange followed, and then they separated.

  “It is done. The city surrenders with peace guaranteed for all citizens and the king to stand trial with the elders as judge.”

  “Fine. We enter the city in three hours.”

  Barlon turned back to his waiting army and the city leaders returned through Pogor’s gates, which remained open.

  At his command tent, Barlon ordered a great carriage be readied for his triumphant entrance into Pogor and all the troops dressed in their finest. A huge feast was to be prepared and served once inside the city. Everywhere there was hustle and bustle. With the mundane chores handled, he called a staff meeting.

  Varg arrived first. He stood black as night, waiting.

  “I’m glad you’re here first. I have an errand for you. Kill Petre and Fasoom.”

  Varg’s eyes glittered like rubies. He nodded and was gone.

  Soon the others trickled in. Lom and Ecker came together, the general remarking on the good fortune of Pogor falling without a long and costly siege. Lom remained silent, his white eyes unblinking. Razgoth entered the tent alone, stoic and silent. Shalmuthe simply appeared and as usual, no one saw him enter.

  “Thank you for coming,” beamed Barlon when they were all seated. “This day seals our triumph over the West. We will soon march victoriously into Pogor and her riches will be ours.”

  “And what of Daggon?” asked Lom. “Will he come to be cut down like the others?”

  Barlon pointed to Shalmuthe. “While we fought the battle with steel, he’s fought with weapons of a different sort.”

  Shalmuthe rose to speak. “King Daggon is returning to his farmlands. I made sure accurate reports of your sweeping victory reached him as he marched north. Included in those reports was the assurance that resistance was hopeless. Daggon is a sensible man. He has retired from the battle, swearing allegiance to Lord Gorth.”

  “Ha! Well done,” said Barlon, clapping his hands together with glee.

  “And what of the wizards of Scaltzland, and their home front armies?” asked Razgoth.

  “Ah, there too Shalmuthe has prepared well,” said Barlon.

  The master spy looked to Barlon before speaking again. Barlon smiled and nodded. Shalmuthe said, “There will not be any reinforcements coming from Scaltzland. A few weaker wizards and a sizable guard force loyal to the king remained in Ferd, their capitol. Once news of the war reached them the wizards wanted to go south immediately to help King Petre, and would have been here by now except for the High Priest of Zor. We have been grooming him for this chance to overthrow the king and turn Scaltzland into a theocracy. He denounced the king, swore allegiance to Lord Gorth and is setting up Scaltzland as a religious state. His followers along with troops from our legions are swiftly taking control from the king’s followers. Soon our ally, the High Priest, will rule in Ferd and the fight will be over.”

  Razgoth gulped down an outburst against religious rulers and sat stone silent waiting for the meeting to end. He wondered about Varg’s absence.

  The meeting ended with enthusiastic exchanges about the merriment waiting inside Pogor. As soon as everyone else had gone, Varg entered the tent. He opened a leather sack and dumped the heads of King Fasoom and King Petre on the table. Their dead eyes still carried the torment and pain of their violent deaths.

  Barlon uncorked a bottle of wine, tipped it up and drank heavily. “You’ve done well,” he said to Varg, drinking between words.

  “Yes, you’ve won your empire,” said Varg. “Now I want my freedom.” The demon prince’s eyes burned brighter than a hot fire.

  “No,” snapped Barlon. “My enemies are not yet defeated.”

  “They are. All are dead or subservient to you.” Varg reached for the medallion around Barlon’s neck.

  “Stop,” shouted Barlon, clutching the magic talisman.

  The fine-spun gold threads of the amulet that controlled Varg tightened around the demonic figurine locked within. Varg stopped, his hand still outstretched.

  “I will give you your freedom after Daggon lies dead at my feet, and the people of Scaltzland call me ruler.”

  Barlon drank another long draught from the bottle.

  “Soon,” he said. “Soon you will go free but not until I’m done with you.”

  Varg backed away slowly. Hate filled his eyes but Barlon was too drunk to notice.

  “You will walk at my side into Pogor,” Barlon told the demon. “If anyone tries to harm me, kill them!”

  “As you wish.”

  Barlon left the command tent and went to his personal quarters. He pulled out his black and gold dress uniform, the one he’d had years before when he was only a captain. The same one he wore the day he had been forced to surrender by his treasonous king. He donned it now. With added embellishments and a few alterations, it looked more stunning, more regal than it had in the lost days of Barlon’s youth. Now he was Ruler, not just an officer of the line. Now he commanded all. He admired his trim military image in the looking glass. Splendid, he thought. The people of Pogor will be grateful for my rule.

  Soon thereafter, Barlon Gorth’s forces marched pompously into Pogor. Barlon rode in the lead. A small band of drummers hammered out the beat to announce their coming. The streets were lined with dutifully respectful merchants who had temporarily closed their shops. There was no cheering, no flag waving. Here and there a tear fell. Stout men-at-arms stood their posts on either side of the main boulevard. Many a loyal guardsman had trouble keeping a dry eye as well. There were no attempts at violence on Gorth’s person and Varg strode dark and forebodingly silent at his side through the gathered throng.

  Finally, they entered the interior courtyard of King Fasoom’s castle. The two gray-haired elders, who had earlier met Barlon at the city gates, stood perched atop the long tier of broad steps, waiting for Barlon to arrive.

  Both men stood stiffly, unmoved by the pomp and military ceremony. As the entourage approached the bottom of the stairs, one of the elders shifted from one foot to the other, craning his neck as if trying to locate someone or something.

  Barlon reached the bottom of the stairs, leaped from his horse and dashed up the wide stone steps two at a time, Varg on his heels. He stopped before the elders.

  “Are you ready to turn over the royal scepter?”

  “Where is King Fasoom?” demanded the second elder.

  “He is king no longer. Why do you care?” Barlon's voice was a harsh rumble.

  “
You said he would be brought to trial,” reminded the first.

  “He was killed trying to escape,” said Barlon reaching for the scepter.

  “No, you lied.”

  Both elders stepped back, motioning for the guards. Barlon’s sword flashed once, twice, and both men fell dead. Varg stepped between the guards and Barlon. His cold, soul-piercing glare stopped them. Barlon leaned down and picked up the city scepter.

  “I am the new king,” he proclaimed, turning to the assemblage. “Tonight there will be feasting in my honor.”

  A roar of approval went up from Barlon’s troops. The city dwellers turned glumly from the scene. Slowly, the gathering broke up, leaving the soldiers to find refuge where they could. Barlon spent his first hours strolling through the marvelous sandstone castle, admiring the craftsmanship and architecture of the massive, lavishly appointed structure, with its high ceilings, wide windows and intricate carvings.

  That evening Barlon’s supply master put forth an elegant banquet prepared from the best of the castle’s provisions. Wine flowed into the streets and before the night was done, his army fell into a drunken slumber. In the city streets, Barlon’s drunken troops looted and pillaged unhindered. Barlon, too, drank heavily and was carried to bed by Lom in the wee hours of the morning. Only Varg and a few others refrained from over indulgence.

  At dawn’s light, an exhausted serving girl set her tray down in the kitchen. She had seen a night full of drunken revelry and she was tired. She mounted the stairs past sleeping soldiers and entered her second story room. There she slipped out of her coarse rags, fit only for a scullery maid, and carefully removed the wax scar that had turned her pretty face into a horrible apparition. She picked up the knee-length white gown that lay over the bed and walked to the window. With one hand she threw it open and watched the new dawn.

  Her heavy sigh broke the silence. Fatigue bore crushingly on her. There was no rest. She cast her spell of change and became a great eagle, tested her wings, and launched into the growing light.

  #

  The same night Barlon’s troops enjoyed the splendor of Pogor, a small sailing craft glided silently down the Rushon River. Abadis stood at the rail, his robes fluttering gently in the stiff breeze. He peered intently at the forest slipping past, hoping to catch a sign of Gant. Occasionally he saw the luminous, green eyes of some wild animal, but there was no sign of the young warrior.