Into Oblivion (Book 4) (5 page)

Chapter Four

The sound of cracking whips was pleasing to Sultan Zamir. He smiled as his men drove the captured Southlanders into the large courtyard of his partially-built palace at Anwar. Here, they would be put to work at finishing the structure, joining the one thousand slaves that were already there toiling away under the hot sun.

He smirked as he looked upon their dark bodies; their crinkled hair; their black eyes. To him, they were mere animals to be worked until they collapsed. They were not human; only slaves.

They were separated, led to their permanent work areas, and whipped into submission. They did not protest for fear of the wrath of The Lifegiver’s minions, the Jindala, who drove them with their whips and spears. They were a people on the edge of extinction, having been nearly wiped out by the people of the desert through endless campaigns of slaughter. Still being primitive in the ways of weaponry, the Southlanders were defenseless, and now they lived only to serve The Lifegiver’s will.

Zamir would ensure that their purpose was served.

He watched the architects and foreman gather to distribute the work force among the various projects. Some would be sent to the quarries, some to the walls, and still more would be sent to the catacombs underneath. Wherever they were sent, they would remain there forever, until their flesh dropped from their bones. The foreman and architects were slaves as well; men of Khem and Pashir who had been recruited by force to design and build Zamir’s Palace. They were enslaved by The Lifegiver’s will, as the rest of the slaves would soon be.

Zamir sat back into his sedia, watching the bustle of activity, and the cruel lashings the slaves received at the hands of his men. He enjoyed their pain, and felt pleasure in the sounds of their torment. It was a necessary evil. The slaves outnumbered his men ten to one, and aggression was the only way to instill them with enough fear to keep them all in line. Still, even if it were not necessary, it would occur nonetheless.

Zamir enjoyed it.

As he turned to his captain, his grin faded when a sudden pain exploded in his chest. He gasped, looking down to see an arrow sticking out dead center. His captain stared; shocked and bewildered, as the Sultan slowly collapsed into his chair.

“Guards!” the captain shouted. “Guards!”

The construction site suddenly burst into activity as numerous armored men poured into the courtyard. Sultan Zamir was dead, and he was there for all the slaves to see.

The dark-skinned men looked on in confusion, unsure of what had just happened. Men were rushing everywhere, jabbing with their spears to keep the slaves from looking away from their tasks.

Suddenly, a large man stood up near the wall. He was darker than the rest, and bigger. He towered over the rest of the men by at least a head’s height. He shouted into the sky, his deep voice bellowing in the courtyard like a battle horn. The other slaves dropped their tools, ignoring the order to return to work. They gathered together, shouting and picking up stones to throw at the guards. The newer slaves were bewildered, but soon realized what was happening.

The insurrection was mounting, and the Jindala were surrounded.

Then, one by one, arrows streaked into the crowd with surprising accuracy. Jindala guards fell, skewered by the divinely guided missiles that appeared from nowhere. The slaves crowded the fallen soldiers, grabbing their spears and other weapons as the larger man directed them. He looked around for the source of the attacks, silently thanking the stranger who had set them free.

Raising his newly acquired weapon above his head, the man shouted at the crowd, and led the slaves out of the courtyard into the city.

From the top of a nearby wall, Garret shouldered his bow, smiling as he watched the mob of angry slaves storm the city. They would slaughter the Jindala like cattle, leaving none alive. Their vengeance would be swift and brutal; not a sight the assassin wanted to see.

Soon, Anwar would be free, and its armies united for the final battle.

Far to the east, Kronos approached the temple of Yin-Kai; his brother. The structure rose above the tundra in the shape of a horned crown. It was immaculate and unspoiled, having been taken well care of by the ogre-mages that ministered to the people of Kinar.

The Firstborn had come to awaken his brother, much as he had done for Leviathan. The giant, ancient Firstborn of the sea had been easy to free; Kronos simply plunged to the bottom of the sea’s deepest part and entered Leviathan’s prison through a grotto that led to his temple. Leviathan’s
priests, the merfolk, had welcomed him. Now, the ancient creature once again roamed the world’s oceans, repairing the damage that had been done by The Lifegiver.

Kronos was spotted as he neared, his pale blue skin and large size having been quite obvious to the ogres that scouted the area. They, too, were large in size; a head taller than Kronos himself. They were muscular, brown-skinned—with a slight covering of short fur—and were dressed in
studded leather armor. On their backs, they carried large katana-like swords; a symbol of their culture of samurai warriors.

They welcomed him, knowing the purpose of his visit. Though they did not speak, they bowed in respect for the brother of their Lord, and allowed him passage into the temple.

The halls inside were large; tall enough to accommodate not only the pilgrims that came frequently, but the ogre-mages that led the prayers. Kronos gazed in awe at the structure. All around him, separating the vast chambers and hallways, were walls of paper strengthened by strips of wood that crossed each other like window panes. Upon the paper walls, murals of battles and peaceful scenes were painted. They were beautiful and detailed, and Kronos smiled as he studied them.

His brother’s people were true artisans, and he knew their warriors were those of honor and virtue. They would be a valuable asset in the final battle.

The ogre-mages led Kronos to a large, ornate door. Symbols of Kinar were inscribed upon it, carved into the wood and gilded with gold leaf. Slowly, the doors were opened, and the ogres led Kronos into the temple’s antechamber.

The ceiling was a vaulted wooden structure, with small square windows that let light through in an intricate pattern. The squares of sunlight that were cast upon the beamed walls marked the passage of the time of day, with each hour illustrated with daily deeds; cleansing rituals and warrior katas. Such a strict sense of discipline made for a skilled warrior.

In the center of the chamber was a statue of Yin-Kai. He was an ogre, like the priests, and wore similar armor. However, his leather was enhanced by steel plates that overlapped and formed an almost impenetrable surface. His helmet was flared at the back and sported a face mask in the style of an angry demon. Upon the forehead, just above the mask, was an ornament shaped like a two-pronged fork that jutted straight up.

Kronos smiled warmly as he looked upon his brother’s countenance. He knew, from his encounter with the Druid, that this statue was Yin-Kai’s prison itself. It was a symbol of his imprisonment, used as a metaphor that could be easily opened. In his own temple, the throne of his prison represented the portal to the real world. Farouk had taught him that his own shackles, and the unbreakable glass that surrounded him, were merely symbols; metaphors.

This statue was the same.

Wordlessly, Kronos took up his great hammer, rearing it back to deliver a massive strike. The ogre-mages backed away, unsure as to his purpose, but did not interfere.

Without even a grunt or a groan, Kronos swung his hammer with all his might. The magical weapon smashed into the statue, shattering it into uncountable pieces that blasted into the air like a swarm of glowing bees. The ogres looked on in wonder, watching as the cloud of particles became suspended in the air. Kronos stepped back, making room for them to begin their spin and contract inward.

Slowly, the form of Yin-Kai began to materialize, freed from its metaphorical prison. He was formidable in appearance; a head taller than Kronos, heavily-muscled, and covered in short red-brown fur. His face, though human-like, was apish, with short tusks that protruded upward from his tightly drawn lips. His hair was black, and fell loosely over his broad shoulders, tied occasionally into thin braids. His armor was fashioned of many plates of bronze, accentuated by strips of fine silk
, and tied together with belts of the toughest leather.

When the Firstborn was fully formed, he opened his eyes. They were brown flecked with gold, and full of the wisdom of the ancients. He looked down at his brother, who smiled warmly. Yin-Kai returned the smile, placing his huge hand on top of Kronos’ head and shaking it playfully.

“Kronos,” Yin-Kai said, his voice rough and beastly. As usual, Kronos said nothing, but placed his hands on Yin-Kai’s face. The two stood silent for a moment while the priests looked on.

Then, Yin-Kai released his brother and turned to his servants. The ogres bent to one knee, bowing before their lord. The Firstborn looked upon them with pride, glad to see that they had remained faithful. Without their service, he knew, the men of the East may have forgotten their ways. But he knew his priests had maintained his legacy in his absence, and his people would be prepared to join the ongoing battle.

“Gather your weapons,” Yin-Kai commanded. “We will rally our armies and face this Lifegiver once and for all.”

The ogres bowed in obedience, and left for the armory. Yin-Kai turned to Kronos.

“Your people have been freed?” he asked. Kronos nodded. “And the Valkyries? Have they returned?”

Kronos nodded again.

“Then let us go, my brother. My people will gladly join this battle.”

Yin-Kai drew his huge daikatana, holding it across his chest. Kronos held up his hammer in return.

“For the Great Mother,” Yin-Kai said.

Garret rested peacefully in the hammock that was stretched between two beautiful oaks. He earned this rest with his recent return to the Great Mother’s bidding. Now his mind was free to wander, and wander it did.

In his dream, he sat atop a mighty horse, facing a rather large force of Northmen who stood silent and ready. At his side was a beautiful woman dressed in regal armor emblazoned with the symbol of a dove. Her hair was a striking red, like the color of blood, and her eyes were the deep green of tropical seas. Beside her, an older man, dressed in chainmail and a black tunic, sat atop his own mount. He also bore the symbol of the dove.

Behind the trio, an army of horsemen awaited the command of the woman, who he now realized was their queen; his queen. Why she was here, he did not know.

“What are your orders, my lady?” the man asked.

The Queen urged her horse forward a few steps, turning to face the two. “I wish to speak to this Ulrich,” she said. “I hear he is the new Jarl, and that he is an honorable man. What do you think Fergis?”

Fergis shrugged. “If he is a man of peace, then I would suggest we hear him out. I see no reason to charge.”

The Queen smiled. “Very good,” she agreed. “Garret, Fergis, join me.”

With that, she turned toward the Northmen and spurred her horse on, her hair whipping in the wind like flame. Fergis, growling with frustration, followed. Garret took his place beside the Queen, quickening his horse’s pace to match hers.

Across the field, a large Northman and two other warriors stepped forward to meet them on foot. They all bore their weapons, carrying them in a neutral gesture. They were, however, still formidable in appearance, and Garret knew the entourage would have to be cautious.

“Keep your hands off your weapons,” the Queen commanded. “We don’t want to alarm them. But be ready.”

Siobhan held her hand up in greeting as the trio approached the Northmen. Their leader, an impressive young man with large shoulders and an even larger hammer, greeted them with a polite nod. The man next to him was expressionless, yet remained calm and inquisitive.

“King Ulrich, of the Tribe of the Wolf, I assume,” Siobhan said, turning her horse to the side to view him in a neutral gesture.

“You assume correctly,” Ulrich replied. “We mean you no harm, I assure you.”

“Why are you here in my lands?” Siobhan asked. “Our soldiers have clashed in the past. You risk war.”

Ulrich placed his hammer on the ground before him. His two henchmen did the same.

“I have come to offer you a truce,” Ulrich stated. “We wish no enmity between our people and yours. We only ask for sanctuary in your lands.”

“Interesting,” Siobhan said, dismounting her horse and stepping right up to Ulrich to look him in the eye. Ulrich’s partners were impressed, and remained still. Ulrich smiled.

“As the new Jarl of your tribe,” Siobhan began, “what do you have to offer in return?”

“We are not only warriors,” Ulrich explained, “but we are fishermen and hunters. We will keep good trade relations with the nearby towns, and offer our weapons in their defense, should the need arise.”

Siobhan stepped back, looking Ulrich over thoroughly. Garret felt a slight twinge of jealousy, not really understanding why. Fergis noticed, grinning as he watched Garret’s expression.

“I have no doubt that your men are capable of battle,” she said, walking over to Ulrich’s right-hand man and looking him over as well.