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

Chapter 28

O
n the plains of Chadmir in Barlon’s command tent, the Mountain Lord met with his staff.  Scattered around the large folding table in the center of the tent were numerous chairs, some occupied, some empty.  The lanterns set upon the table cast a warm light throughout the tent’s interior that did little to change the gloomy mood.  It would have been worse except Varg was absent. 

“Have you caught the traitor?” yelled Barlon. 

Blank faces told him “no.”  He surveyed the group, his captains and his trusted advisors.  Only these men knew the plan well enough to have foiled it.  It had to be one of them, but who?  “Razgoth,” he said, turning on the wizard.   “What about their wizards’ magic?  How can we negate it?  And Lom, you’ve got to do better against Petre’s knights.  You have magic armor.  You’re supposed to be invincible!  What happened?  What went wrong?”

Barlon went on ranting like a madman, stomping back and forth.  He shouted question after question, never allowing anyone time enough to answer.  Soon they had all ceased to listen.  Finally Barlon ran out of words.  He finished with, “Tomorrow we will clear the field of battle.  Those inferior, soft, excuses for warriors will not stop us again.”

The tent remained silent.  Some of the men stirred as if to get up, others started toward the door.  Barlon motioned for them to stay.

“Where is Varg?” asked Razgoth.

“Ah.  I’m glad you asked,” said Barlon, twisting his hands together, a hint of glee in his cat-like eyes.  “While we sit here doing nothing my ally has forayed into the enemy camp.  Darkness is his greatest friend.  He will soon return to report our problems solved.”

Everyone looked around the tent half expecting Varg to spring from the ground.  Nothing happened.

“What is he up to?” asked Razgoth.

“He is delivering vengeance upon our enemies.  Tomorrow Lom will accompany Varg and attack the northern front.  Razgoth, you will soften the southern front and ten brigades under General Ecker will attack there.  Five brigades will remain in reserve at my command.”

“What of their magic?” asked Lom who knew he was attacking where Petre’s wizards were strongest.

“Do not worry.”  It was a dark, gravelly voice from the back of the tent.  Varg stood towering almost to the top of the sloping canvas roof. “Those wizards will cast no magic tomorrow because I’ve killed them tonight.”

Silence.

Then Barlon smiled.  “You were successful?”

“Yes.   Individually, they had no protections strong enough to stop a Prince of Darkness.”

“Then our victory is assured. That is all.”  Barlon waved them out.

The tent emptied except for Varg who stood impassive like some giant obsidian statue.

“You have done well.  Your rewards will be great,” said Barlon, clapping his hands together.

“Yes, master.  My rewards are great.”

“One day you and I will rule this world.”

“And I shall have the realm of the Dark Elves.”

“Yes, yes.  Whatever you wish.”

Barlon poured a cup of wine from the decanter on the table and passed it up to Varg.  Then he refilled his own cup and both toasted to victory.

“Yes,” Barlon mused, “as I have my revenge, so you too shall have yours.   It is good we understand each other.”  Barlon cast his feet up on the table and leaned back.

He drank heavily, letting the wine take the edge off his tense muscles.

Varg stood silent. He drained the last of his wine and ate the bronze mug. “Good wine,” he said and burped.

It wasn’t long before one side of the tent opened without benefit of a flap.  A secretive figure slipped in and the tent seemed to reseal itself.  Shalmuthe stepped into the torchlight, his hard blue eyes glinting with menace.

“Shalmuthe,” greeted Barlon, waving his mug to the newcomer. “Have you found our spy?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well.”  Barlon poured more wine for himself and a mug for the master spy.

“Everyone returned to their tents and began immediately planning for tomorrow's battle.  All except Griffith.  He returned to his tent like the others but inside he has two women.   Women I’ve never seen before.  Instead of attending to business they attended to pleasure.  Perhaps they are the link to the Western Kings.”

Barlon sprang to his feet.  “How did they get here?” he demanded.  “Griffith’s a madman.  He’s always been on the verge of rebellion.  He loves women and blood more than our cause!  He must be eliminated.”  Barlon shook an index finger in his spy’s face.

Shalmuthe hesitated, and then spoke at the first lull in Barlon’s rantings.  “Lord, I’m sure you know best, but this is highly circumstantial evidence.  Griffith may be. . .”

“No!”  Barlon’s fiery glare silenced the shorter man.  “Griffith will be executed this night and the sluts that service him too.  Sir Jarlz will take command of the 3rd Brigade and lead it tomorrow.”

Shalmuthe clamped his lips shut.

“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

B
arlon’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 horseback.
 
“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.”