Chapter One - They call him Bileblood
Drak had long since lost his weapons somewhere on the battlefield’s open plains. He didn’t care. Let his body be the sole warning he gave to those wise enough to discern it. Nearly every part of him was now smeared in large swathes with the blood of his enemies and a vile black paint, the sludge these vermin coated onto their weaponry to infect the wounded. A coward’s tactic, killing slowly because you could not defeat your opponent outright. Gobs of it sizzled in the open cuts across Drak’s bare chest, his arms, back and legs, heating the blood. He liked it. Despite the smell.
He walked straight ahead. Even his countrymen altered course to keep out of his path. Stray enemies, spat out of the battle lines, would see him, blanch, and dive back into the flailing melee rather than face the certain death which Drak’s scowl promised.
Not that many enemies remained, really. The battle was all but won and the enemy was in process of realising they were beaten. Drak left the waning skirmishes behind and walked the fresh ruins of their stone city. Such a waste. This province could have been spared, had their idiot king grown some balls and defied the Snake. Now he and his army could not even be allowed quarter because captives cost precious resources to keep alive.
Some had tried to defect. They were dead before they finished speaking. If someone defected to your side, despising the loyalty due their nation of birth, they could defect away from you with even greater ease. As the saying went, why cut away a stranger’s rotting limb and fix it to yourself? Madness.
Drak took a deep breath and eyed the skyline. It would get dark in a matter of hours. The smoke had greatly lessened already, the fire apparently satiated with all its earlier rampaging. It laid on the shattered stones, gnawing on the leftovers, but would not be roused again without great incentive. Let it sleep, it had done its part. As for Drak, he would begin the second phase of the day. Gleaning information. He made his way into the castle proper, trusting experience to lead him to the chambers he sought.
The first door he kicked open gave way with the perfect measure of resistance and a satisfying crunch, allowing Drak the illusion of a continued challenge. He let his momentum take him forward on his kicking foot so he landed halfway through the broken entrance. He sniffed the air. Bah. Empty. Only gold and ornaments. He left immediately, leaving it for the looters.
The next door was the same, and the next, although that room at least housed a small family, a woman, two girls of age and three little ones. Drak left them as he’d found them, huddled together and waiting. Such as these would be spared, of course, even offered placement. Or they could try to make their own way. A slow suicide yet still their choice.
Finally he found a room with an acrid tang at the edge of smelling. The door he wanted would be in here somewhere. It was often the way. Those who meddled in dark pursuits fostered secret shame, which is why they shrouded their work in shadow.
Drak stepped inside carefully, feeling along the walls with his eyes. The room was set up as a pantry. A large bench dominated the middle of the room, its cracks and edges stained with old flour. Large shelving units lined the walls, piled with dishes, bread and all its requisite ingredients, and a wide brick fireplace which was a half-span deep. Drak ignored this, as he had never yet found an entrance there. He supposed that when planning a secret doorway, one shunned locations which seemed predictable. In itself, this behaviour was predictable and so obvious-seeming areas could be bypassed.
This was the very line of thinking Drak was congratulating himself on when he heard a soft discharge and ducked too late.
He spun rather than rolling, as he had felt the needle stab into his back; a roll would thrust it further in, and some needles were designed to work themselves deeper and deeper into the body. Unfortunately, his attacker had prudently kept firing. Three more needles sprouted from his chest.
He tasted mint. Drak’s eyebrows drew together. Then his eyes went wide. He knew this poison. A paralytic relaxant. He felt its cold fingers spreading across his chest to his arms and down to his legs.
Drak’s knees wobbled as he fell back against the shelving unit he had been investigating. A deep shadow in the recesses of the fireplace took a careful step forward.
“Not too surprised, I hope,” said the magician. “No one thinks to look here.”
“Too obvious,” they both said, though Drak’s words slurred. The magician blinked, a smile blooming on his face.
He lifted his blowdart device to his lips and shot Drak again, in the thigh this time. “Just so,” he said, placing the reed onto the pantry table with a click.
The man pulled back his cowl. Deep-set piggy eyes, Drak decided. His facial skin was a foul combination of greasy and pasty, and his wispy hair gathered in snarling clumps. His full lips were tweaked in a juicy smirk as he ambled around the table and pulled out a chair for himself next to Drak.
He leaned forward, inspecting Drak with narrowed eyes. “Mm,” he said, nodding. “You’ll be the one, then.”
Drak’s upper lip quivered. The man’s breath was actually worse than the black slime on Drak’s body. “What… ‘one?’” he managed.
“I suppose you’re right,” the man sighed. “Proper procedures must be maintained.”
He sat up then, putting a hand to his chest. “I am Bajin. Bajin Kingsmage.”
He said ‘kingsmage’ with exaggerated enunciation. Drak flicked his eyes weakly to the worthless mage, his breathing getting momentarily faster. Bajin noticed, and his lips stretched into the smirk now.
“That’s right. Do not think you can lie to me, brute. Answer honestly and some honest end can be found for you. What are you doing in here?”
“Fight… over,” he said. He swallowed with difficulty. “Early loot.”
The mage stared hard, then tsked as he pulled a wicked little knife from his robes and stabbed it into the comparatively softer flesh of Drak’s sides. Drak grunted, eyes going wide. Bajin released the handle, leaving the blade embedded in Drak’s flesh.
“It will stay there as a reminder. Lie again, and I will twist it. Lie yet again, and I will push it from this side to the other. Now, what are you doing in here?”
Drak’s breath was shallow, his eyes tight. When he spoke, it was puffed past gritted teeth.
“Push … the blade,” he growled, “and I’ll … strangle you with my own entrails.”
Bajin blinked, staring at Drak’s smoldering visage. “Well,” he said, reaching down for the blade’s handle, “I must say that’s original.”
He twisted the blade, hard. Twice, and twice more. Drak groaned, drooling, his eyes wide and panicked.
“Mage’s … rooms,” he wheezed.
Bajin nodded, clearly expecting this answer. “Searching for?”
“Orbs,” he said, eyes searching his enemy’s. “One in particular, and a… an amulet.” The last was added grudgingly.
“Describe it,” Bajin snapped.
Drak’s head lolled softly side to side. “Said it looks… like amulet. Old. Ugly, looters wouldn’t… wouldn’t touch.”
“And?” the mage asked eagerly. “Come now, that could be a thousand lockets. How would you know the right one?”
Drak met the man’s beady eyes. “Empty… socket. Scorched.”
Bajin’s mouth peeled into a gruesome smile. “It’s here,” he breathed. “The firestone. Oh, my master will be pleased.”
Drak’s hand shot up and closed around the weedy little man’s throat. In an instant he was on his feet, spinning as he rose, and smashed the puny mage into the wall, holding him effortlessly while Bajin’s feet dangled and kicked.
“So,” Drak breathed, bringing his face closer to the choking mage’s, “it’s here. The amulet. At last.”
Bajin scrabbled ineffectually at Drak’s relentless grip. Then he got smart and grabbed at his knife, still stuck in Drak’s side. Drak simply pressed his bulk against the weaker man’s spindly frame, making large motions impossible. He glared into the man’s sweating face and showed all his teeth.
“Your master Gulovath will not be pleased to learn you’ve lost it.”
A great voice booms.
“A fork in the path of destiny appears briefly, and collapses.”
The choices were:
Choice #1: Drak kills the mage, loots the place and leaves.
Choice #2: Drak has always wanted a servant. The mage will do.
