The King, His Son, Their Sorcerer and His Lover Read online

  Vengar the Barbarian in...

  The King, His Son, Their Sorcerer and His Lover

  by Chris J. Randolph

  It was the third week of the Hyperbolic Age and things were going just terribly. In fact, if the previous two weeks were any indication, the Hyperbolic was a real stinking crap heap of an age, rife with senseless wars, vicious earthquakes and great belching, burping volcanoes. It was pretty much the worst thing to grace a calendar since the abominable eighth day of the week, whose vile name is best left forgotten.

  This foul age began with the destruction of the pearl of the oceans, the wondrous island nation known since the hoariest days of old as Atlantis. What the Atlanteans did to deserve such punishment will forever remain a mystery, but so offensive and plentiful were their sins that forty-eight Gods banded together and rained divine fury down upon them. The doomed continent and its perverse populace were first harried by a half-dozen typhoons, then smothered in molten lava, crushed by a fearsome hail of meteors and finally dashed apart by a day long earthquake which sunk the last smoking ruins deep beneath the churning waves.

  Echoes of this cataclysm rumbled out across the world, sowing despair in their wake and summoning every manner of warlord and deranged sorcerer to action. Thus began a time of iron-fisted oppression and bloodstained battlefields, of the blackest magics imaginable and even darker hatred between men. In short, the Earth was a bloody mess.

  Into this melodramatic yet somehow lost age strode a mighty figure, a king cursed to never again remember his homeland, who wandered the thousand and one kingdoms in search of that which he had lost. He was a soldier, a thief, a killer for hire and a hero by chance, given to a monstrous humor which barely concealed an even greater anguish. His name was Vengar and, despite it being rather trendy, he was a barbarian.

  As was his way, Vengar stalked across the shattered lands on sandaled feet. His gleaming emerald eyes forever scanned the horizon and his wavy mane of obsidian hair whipped about in the grit-riddled wind. He wore the ruddy hides of his people (that is, hides like those his people traditionally wore... not hides made of them), and upon his back rested a sword so large it stretched the very bounds of credulity.

  His present journey had been both long and arduous. He marched for countless days across the craggy Peligross Desert with nothing to sup upon but the giant spitting scorpions which lurked in every shadow, and he drank what few drops of water could be squeezed from the region's dagger-spined plants. Hence, it filled the barbarian's ham-sized heart with a ham-sized joy when finally he came to the lush and lovely banks of the Maddivur River, and caught sight of the red-walled city waiting on her far side.

  Vengar marched up to the city's main gate and stood still as an oak, his hulking physique rigid with power and his countenance grim as a tombstone. The wind whistled softly, and he could just barely hear the muffled bustle of civilization beyond.

  "In the name of Hasrik, almighty king of Tensara, halt," said a helmeted soldier in the guard post above. Vengar couldn't possibly halt any more than he had already halted, so he did nothing at all. That seemed to suffice. "Announce yourself," the soldier said.

  "I am Vengar," the barbarian called out, his words crashing forth like a rock slide.

  "And what business do you seek in Tensara?" The soldier's face was hidden within his helm, but Vengar doubted there was even a scant trace of a beard upon it. By the cracking of his voice, the young soldier hadn't yet seen fifteen seasons, and Vengar could only wonder what sort of city defended its walls with children.

  After a moment, Vengar motioned toward the vast sword peeking up over his shoulder. "I'm a barbarian," he said. "Clearly, I have come to trade earthen wares."

  The soldier froze like a red elk caught in the light of a bright torch, then ducked his helmeted head behind the wall and had a hushed conversation with someone who remained unseen. He popped back up a second later. "Ummm... No thanks. We have plenty already. Earthen wares are one of our chief exports, you see. Lots of clay about these parts, so I'll thank you to kindly be on your way."

  Vengar sighed, and spared a glance at the great tower looming in the distance. It was hewn of the same red sandstone as the city walls, except at its bulbous tip where gems glittered in every known hue. It looked precisely like an oversized sceptre rising up from the Earth (definitely a sceptre, Vengar reassured himself), and the barbarian could imagine only one sort of person that would choose to live in such a place.

  "Sorcerer," he whispered beneath his breath while dreams of filthy riches swirled between his ears. He let the sumptuous visions linger for a moment before banishing them with a shake of his mighty head, then bellowed, "Hark sapling, and hark ye well! I trade in blows, and I think it only fair to warn you... business has been smashing. Now, will you open the gate and grant me passage, or would you care to sample my product instead?"

  The guard squeaked and again ducked behind the wall where he had another, more frantic, conversation. When they finished, Vengar heard one of the pair take off running, while the other worked the mechanism that opened Tensara's huge, spiky gate.

  What awaited him on the other side was impressive. The city of Tensara stretched out before the mighty barbarian, every inch of it teeming with life. Guards guarded and jugglers juggled while orange-robed cultists walked by in single-file, chanting in strange and unfamiliar tongues. All sorts of merchants lined the streets, some at hastily erected stands and others carting their goods about in wheelbarrows. The most strident among them were the meat vendors who hawked delectable bits of goat, camel and mysterious other. They waved bright red slices above their heads while their shrill ululations rang out across the way.

  Vengar waded into the crowd, taking in all the many awesome sights which surrounded him. After so long in the simplicity of the wilderness, it was unsettling to once again be among people and their wicked ways. Worse still, he detected an undercurrent of something unusual about these folk, but couldn't put a sausage-like finger on what that something could be.

  As in most cities, there were all manner of people going about their business: stout men and spindly ones, women beauteous and hideous alike, and dirt-faced children darting about everywhere under foot. They were a loud and unruly lot, except when the roving bands of armored soldiers marched by, at which time everyone fell silent as a wild hare in cheetah country.

  Then Vengar realized what was bothering him. It was the eyes. In a thriving city like Tensara, the barbarian expected to see the light of life burning behind every pair. The brightness of inflamed passion—of love, sadness, suspicion and fury—was missing, and the people's eyes were instead sunken, dark and gloomy. They were the eyes of a people long besieged, yet no enemy camped at their gate.

  There was mystery afoot, and it quickened Vengar's pulse. This place was a great city—one of the ten largest in all the thousand and one kingdoms—yet its walls were guarded by squeaky-voiced children and the populace was chronically depressed. "What in the hell of Genjiss, pit of a thousand bleating goats, is going on here?" the barbarian asked aloud.

  No one answered, though his outburst attracted a half-dozen suspicious looks.

  He wandered the crowded streets and alleys of Tensara for some time while he puzzled over the problem. Any number of different theories ran through his mind yet none satisfied, so he finally decided to take matters into his own boulder-like hands. At random, he grabbed one of Tensara's sullen, plain-looking women by the collar and said, "Pardon me, plain-looking woman."

  The plain-looking woman took one glance at the mound of muscles which had hold of her and croaked, "What?"

  "Pray tell, what vexes yo
ur people so?"

  She looked to her left as a band of soldiers marched by, then to her right where more orange-robed cultists were stepping lightly and chanting. Each group paid an awful lot of attention to the other. "Gentle barbarian," the woman said without irony, "what doesn't vex my people?"

  With that, she yanked her plain-looking collar free of Vengar's hands and went about her plain-looking way.

  Unfazed despite being no closer to an answer, Vengar shook his head with a grunt and continued on. He had the distinct feeling of being watched wherever he went, but that was hardly new. It was impossible for a hulking, heavily armed brute such as himself to go unnoticed, and he'd long ago gotten used to the ever-present itch of prying eyes. In fact, his mere presence garnered so much attention that a casual stroll around usually proved sufficient advertising for his services.

  At every step, the answer to the mystery eluded Vengar's grasp, while the looming tower continued to taunt him with its oddly flaring architecture and the promise of strange treasures hoarded within. He could practically smell the melon-sized jewels, the esoteric trinkets, the golden idols of perverse gods... and his mouth watered at the very thought.

  As the weary sun set over Tensara, it burnished the sky in shades of gold and bronze, while the city's red stone skin seemed to glow. Inky clouds of smoke issued forth from round chimneys to stain the molten sky, their gibbous puffs breaking apart into limp threads like the decaying clothes of a dead man tossed out to sea, until finally the blue-black veil of night fell and erased them from sight.

  The city transformed in the cool night air, once resplendent beneath the fury of the sun but now a sanctuary of the pale moon, whose dim light painted the stone tenements everywhere in spectral tones. All over town, the yellow-orange glow of hearth fires refused to be contained; they leaked out through the loose slats of doors and boarded windows, and every so often burst into the street only to be devoured by the cold darkness which crouched in waiting beyond.

  All was quiet and subtle as a young girl's first proclamation of love, yet Vengar's cat-like senses detected something of interest. Soft sounds of drunken revelry and the scent of roasted meats drifted on the summer breeze, leading him out into the darkness of night like a siren's song.

  The source turned out to be an inconspicuous tavern hidden deep in the foulest part of town, in a maze of back-alleys and cul-de-sacs that must have confounded even the locals. Its entrance was a plain, unadorned door without any sort of sign or placard, leading Vengar to believe the establishment neither required nor desired advertising. He also recognized a certain acrid smell which told him the tavern's name would be known in all the right circles, and bitterly sought after in all the wrong ones.

  The main room was sunken several feet beneath ground level, and as Vengar stepped down into it, his nose and mouth were assaulted by a pungent mixture of arcane smokes and mind-bending vapors. The air was thick, moist and sticky, filled with a constant rumble of conversation punctuated here and there by peals of roguish laughter. While the patrons sipped at frothy mugs and fanciful hookahs, their steely hands hovered over daggers and their eyes danced all around, keeping close check on one another as well as the barbarian who'd just stepped through the door.

  Only one man seemed unconcerned by Vengar's arrival. He sat in a dim corner with his ornately tattooed arms resting on the chewed-up tabletop, and he kept his face hidden in the shadow of a leather hood. He remained eerily motionless while his entourage of muscle-bound and partially armored thugs drank and merrily belched out tuneless songs.

  Vengar ignored the hooded man, and summoning all of the swagger at his disposal, strode through the room and up to the bar. He slyly scanned the men he passed along the way, noting a half-hidden set of lock-picks here, a disguised blackjack there, ruffled sheets of stained paper stuffed inside of sleeves, and silken sashes bearing tiny vials of colorful liquids. Whatever the tavern's name, it was obviously a den of thieves and second rate magicians, where foul business was conducted in the safety of the shade.

  In short, it was Vengar's kind of scene.

  He pulled out a creaky stool and waved to the sneering, cratered face behind the bar. "Strong ale in the largest flagon you have," Vengar said as he placed a single gold piece on the counter.

  The bartender nodded and somehow sneered even more, then went to fetch the ale. The fellow hadn't yet returned when Vengar felt something supple press up against him. The barbarian didn't turn his head. Not yet.

  "The evening's greetings to you, oh mighty warrior." Her voice was smooth and melodic, the tones as sweet as Spring's first nightingale. With each word, Vengar could feel her heavy bosom heave against him, and as she finished, her wide-flared hips slid across his thigh.

  In return, Vengar gave her only silence. Her performance was all too practiced, and he reckoned he'd better keep a watchful eye on his drinks this night, lest he find himself drugged and dragged away into slavery... again.

  The bartender returned and set down a flagon that was nearly large enough, then plucked the gold coin from the counter. He eyed the woman at Vengar's side suspiciously, but he more than likely gave everyone that look. It was just common sense in his line of business.

  "Tell me," the woman said, her voice as demure as an open mouthed kiss, "by what name are you known?"

  "I am Vengar," Vengar said. He still refused to face her.

  She pressed on. "And from whence do you come?"

  At that, Vengar said only, "I do not know."

  His answer brought on a puzzled silence. The woman had doubtlessly never heard such a thing before, and in all likelihood never would again. It was then that Vengar finally turned to look at her; tawny hair fell in rolling waves, framing a lovely face with golden-brown eyes drawn wide with confusion. Her features were delicate and her complexion dusky, like the peoples of Northern Ellysium.

  "How," she stammered, then moved closer until her lips nearly brushed the barbarian's ear. "How could you not know where you're from?"

  Vengar took a mouthful of bitter ale and savored it for a moment, then took a breath and slowly began to recount his fateful tale. His voice started out more gentle than a forest stream as he described the half-remembered circumstances which drove him out on his quest, but as more listeners gathered, his volume grew and grew until his words bellowed like a howling volcanic rift.

  By the time Vengar reached the climax, the entire tavern had gathered round to listen and were teetering on the edges of their seats, filled with a swirling cocktail of terror and awe. The great barbarian towered above them, pantomiming the last moments of his epic battle. His swollen muscles rippled as he swung an imaginary sword, and he wore a mask of demonic rage. "...but then verily did I grasp the truth! The black, beating heart upon the dais was the wellspring of the witch's unnatural powers," he said. "With every last ounce of my strength, I struck at the odious thing! My blade sunk deep, and I drove it deeper still until a light brighter than the midday sun burst from within its loathsome, bubbling flesh.

  "The witch cried out in agony, her treacherous voice rocking the castle to its foundation, and that was the moment she chose to lay her damnable curse upon me. Dark magics seethed out from her wretched, shriveling fingers, like a thousand cobwebs black as pitch, and they snatched the memories right from my head. 'Suffer this curse, barbarian,' she uttered on her dying breath, 'your mind like a burnt and scattered tome, never again shall you know your home.'"

  "Such vile deviltry!" someone cried out.

  "And worse," Vengar went on, "the witch's spell dealt me a terrible blow, mighty as a stroke from a stone hammer. It sent me reeling across the crumbling floor and cast me into the sea." His voice turned suddenly solemn. "Thus was I set adrift for untold days, the currents carrying me where they willed, until finally they saw fit to wash me ashore. I woke on the sand just as I am today... forever more a broken man... a warrior without a home... a king without a throne."

  For an instant, it seemed that a single tear might iss
ue forth from his emerald eye, but the glistening hints of it instead vanished from sight. There followed a moment of stunned silence among his audience, broken at last by an explosion of thunderous applause and stifled sobs.

  Vengar bowed deeply, then bent toward the lusty lady who had remained by his side throughout the telling of his tale. Her eyes were just as wide as before, but now in amazement rather than confusion. In a husky stage-whisper, he said, "And that, buxom maiden, is why I do not know where I'm from."

  She purred.

  Vengar and his new mistress were treated to countless rounds of bitter ale and more than a few lungfuls of acrid smoke, and after a few hours of such festivities, they took leave of the nameless tavern and ventured out into the streets. The saucy wench led him on a twisting route through Tensara for the next several hours, teasing and taunting him, flirting and flaunting every last inch of her ample curves. Her bright lips were moist and they seemed to beg for Vengar's searing kiss, yet they remained inches out of reach, drawing the barbarian ever on like Tantalus beneath his tree.

  Finally, just when Vengar had reached his limits and feared he might explode, his opportunity appeared. With a wicked grin, his lady leaned back against a stone wall and stretched her arms high above her head, the motion drawing her supple flesh taut. The soft skin of her neck was pale blue in the moonlight and smooth as polished marble. The softest moan ever heard slipped out between her parted lips.

  The barbarian stooped down and produced a throaty growl which rumbled deep with anticipation. He reached out to her, his arms as gnarled and unyielding as an old oak tree, and he took hold of her at the waist. His rough and ready lips neared her silken own, and then she... cried out in anguish.

  "What in the hell of Khakmeh, the bubbling lake of excrement, is wrong?"

  "I'm s-s-s-sorry..." she barely managed to choke out. Her saucer like eyes went glassy, and then as if a dam broke, rivers of tears flashed down her comely cheeks. "It's... it's just this horrible place."