Die By The Sword

  ***

  The horse he left behind, several miles from the village. For two weeks, Torthan fled on foot, and terrorized the people. He robbed travelers. He stole from farms. He hid in piles of manure. One day he hid in a little river, and watched the peasant women wash their clothes and prattle about how the whole countryside lived in fear of him.

  "Vengir's son himself is here," said one of them, "Leading a full company of troops; he’s taking this into his own hands, and no mistake."

  “What about the lieutenant?” said another, “Doesn’t he usually handle matters like this?”

  “Apparently, he went up and made a big speech about how Vengir’s son insisted on going alone.”

  “Whatever makes them happy, I suppose. I won’t argue with them. I mean, one little fugitive can’t do much harm.”

  Smiling, Torthan rose from the water.

  "You're not scared of me," he said, leering like an old satyr, "Are you? I confess myself rather ugly, but that's not why you have that look on your face."

  He took out his dagger and circled the women so they could not escape.

  "No, you're not scared of me,” said Torthan idly, playing with his knife, “You're scared of what I bring with me. You had a pinch in your bellies as little girls, I wager. Hard times those were. Starving times. You don't want to feel that again, do you? That's why I'm so dangerous. I came to this land for war. You don't want that! Your little boys might get hurt! Well, I'll be nice to you. Finish your laundry. Make your dinner! What are you eating tonight? Hot bread? Soft cheese? Warm milk? Enjoy every minute of it. Casrad will take it when he gets the chance. If were you, I’d run while I still had the chance. I’d run as fast as I could. I’d drown your children so they don’t see what he’ll do when he catches you.”

  The women did not say a word as Torthan circled back around them, blew a kiss and a sneer, and slid back into the water.

  By the time he had swam past the great farms that surrounded the women's village, he knew that his scent was gone. No dog could catch him now. Torthan couldn't resist a little chuckle as he floated. Eventually, he grew exhausted. He sunk for a minute, but he flailed desperately and got to shore somehow. Wearily he continued on foot.

  The further north he went, the colder it got. There were no people among these bare frozen hills.

  “Not yet,” growled Torthan, “Not yet!”

  His back howled with pain, and Torthan fell over at last. With a growl, he stood up and slogged on. His back still hurt. Every step pushed a claw further into his back, but he did not slow or waver. He had read the maps as a young man. There were tribes around here somewhere, and he would find them if he had to travel all the way to the ends of the earth. Stubbornly he stepped deeper into the cold, though it was clear there had been no tribes here for a long time.

  At length he stumbled upon a group of brigands, who took him in when they found out that he was a fugitive from the law. They travelled in a rotting, rickety carriage from the glory days. Before Vengir had come to power, power had been in the hands of the brigands. The carriage was one of the last remnants of the things they had stolen. It bounced like a grasshopper as Torthan spoke with the men.

  "Tell us where you came from!" said one of the brigands, spitting, "It's a long way to the Firehouse, and we could use a good story."

  Torthan licked his lips and launched into his story. It was an exceptional performance. He howled like a wolf, and bared his fangs like one. The brigands listened, transfixed, until they came to the Firehouse.

  Torthan knew precisely what this place was, and from the moment he stepped inside it he knew precisely what he would do. As harlots moaned in the shadows, their madam peered at Torthan.

  "You look like you're getting on in years," she said, sucking her fat lips, "Are you sure you can handle one of my girls?"

  "Only one way to find out," said Torthan.

  Two girls later, he emerged from the shadowy rooms, and sprang into the drinking room. The stench of bad beer was like swamp gas, and the men that lay back in their chairs were no match for Torthan’s blazing words. He mounted the bar and surveyed all the chairs sprawled before him like a goblin king. His eyes hypnotized them.

  Once more he told his story.

  “They have all betrayed the cause!” he finished, waving his arms, “They have all bowed to the yoke of Casrad! At this very moment, he could be bringing the chains of tyranny back on this land. What do you think will happen to you?! Casrad’s men will shut you down for good! Are you going to sit here and let them?”

  One man, eyes glazed, stood up. He stumbled, and rose again.

  “No!” he roared like a bull.

  The whole drinking room became a hurricane of open mouths, and closed fists. Mugs hit the wall and shattered. The madam poked her head in the room, terrified.

  “Tommorrow morning,” announced Torthan loudly, “I’m riding out against all of them. We’ll take the tribes first. They’re soft and rich, and easy for the plucking. Their women are prettier than the best whore in this Firehouse! And when we get their soldiers on our side, Casrad won’t know what hit him! Who’s with me?”

  Now all the harlots poked their heads through the door, as the men screamed like wildcats, and pounded each other on the back. Slowly, the harlots backed off as the men drunkenly fumbled for their weapons.

  Torthan retreated soon after. One of the faces poking through the door had caught his eye.

  “My sweet,” he said a few hours later, as the full moon poked through the moth-eaten hole in the roof, “You’re luckier than you know.”

  “How’s that?” whispered the harlot, a squirrely, nervous-looking girl.

  “Tommorrow morning,” said Torthan, “You shall be a queen.”

  He rose from the bed. As his feet hit the floor, his back spasmed with pain, and he pretended to fumble for his clothes. He stood up and faced the harlot.

  “You heard the little chat I had with your friends, yes?”

  “Yes!”

  “This night has proven our victory. What’s your name?”

  “Ealia.”

  “Ealia! Ealia the enchantress! Your chestnut hair has ensnared me this night. When we ride on the morrow, you shall ride with me. You shall wear a crown of iron, of silver, of gold- of anything you wish!”

  “Diamonds?”

  “Diamonds.”

  “Pure diamonds?”

  “Pure as the words I speak to you now. Ealia, when we overrun Casrad, and thrown down his tyranny once and for all, you shall the queen of a New Age. All shall bow at your feet. You shall never feel hunger or fear again! You shall laugh at their names! Queen Ealia! Will you be mine?”

  Ealia beamed as Torthan knelt and swept open his arms.

  “Mighty Torthan,” she said, “I accept.”

  She dove into his arms.

  “All my life,” she sniffed, “People have run me this way and that. I was born in this cold. I was beaten in this cold. I was sold here in this cold. I hate this cold!”

  “My sweet,” he said, “This night I have lit a fire that will take all your cold away. Forever!”