Marthule was a huge man, with a massive belly that seemed to be most of him; it commanded his gait and settled like a rock across his spread thighs, though the strength in his face suggested he ate with a muscled stomach. His arms were thick and small in comparison, with large hands that picked deliberately at the glistening pig plated before him. With the nearby troops waiting on a hair for a skirmish, he dined in sheets of polished black armour, nearly enough metal to sheath three men, with sweeping curves that led to harsh points, like the ones that tipped the fingers of the gauntlets resting near his glass. There were notches where blades were meant to be clamped to the tasset and breastplate, a design that had earned him the label, ‘The Round and Ruthless Lord’.
He breathed heavily, clearly annoyed by the latest report, his knife carving through the steaming platter with a vengeance. His adviser, Semir, and commandant, Kluram, stood eagerly on either side of the table.
‘Sir, I know this concerns you,’ Semir began carefully, a calm having settled over his creased face.
‘Not at all,’ the Lord quipped.
‘We must see this for what it is. Ush’Navall is dead. This is a great victory.’
‘Yet four hundred of my men have their faces in the mud!’ He growled through pig meat.
‘There was no way we could have foreseen the ambush, my Lord,’ Kluram repeated. ‘They had made it seem like they were down to only the one platoon for three days. They played it well.’
‘If only we were so clever.’ With the utterance, he paused his eating and gave the commandant a stern eye. The flames outside the tent flap snapped in the wind, the fire’s lick coincidentally catching itself in his pupil. ‘Where is the prisoner?’
Kluram pointed immediately. ‘We have him in tent five, my Lord.’
Marthule pressed his palms to his knees to rise, and donned his gloves. He waded around the table to the weapon that had gained him the fear he wielded: an unusual metal whip, plated in a way that suggested it was inspired by a scorpion’s tail. Without a word, he passed the entrance and headed to tent five, about sixty yards from his own. Outside, the wind misbehaved, kicking and screaming, then pausing to see how it was received. Two soldiers stood guard at the mouth of each housing, chilled by the spitting rain, and they saluted as he passed. From the sound of it, Semir and Kluram followed hurriedly in his lengthy footsteps. He threw open the cover to tent five.
There were three men there. Two of them, his men, stood on either side of the body in the middle, a racked, kneeling figure who looked like he had already seen the slap of torture. His face bled in various places, and his chest had been stripped bare, but so far untouched, which put a jump in the Lord’s heartbeat. Upon his entrance, the two of them bowed their heads and each took a step back to halt their interrogation.
With the snap of his wrist, the weapon restricted itself into position to form a short, sectioned sword. He took two slow steps forward, to bring the tip of the blade to the man’s drooped chin. He raised it with only the slightest resistance, to see his blood stained face.
He was a man of courage and spirit, so much could be seen in the challenge of his large, brown eyes, perched atop cliff side cheekbones. His features were steeled yet graceful, with lips drawn to the pain, but steady nonetheless, his forehead drizzled with sweat and plastered by long strands of soaked black hair, like scars twisting along his white skin.
With a jolt of surprise, the lord was elated by the find. He tapped gently at the underside of the prisoner’s jaw, careful not to prick the wet skin. For awhile, he stood and considered the Qimak as the spectators waited silently. Then, where he might have snapped his fingers, except for the gloves, he waved for the tent to be evicted. The four men slipped out without delay.
He withdrew the blade, and the man did not let himself slump as the towering Hemshegh sauntered around him, examining him. Layers of steel clinked along one another as he moved.
‘Well, well,’ Marthule said thickly. ‘Look at this.’
The prisoner’s shoulder blades heaved under the pressure of holding him steady. Marthule imagined the soft cut of sweating chicken breasts.
‘None other than the man himself,’ he smirked between thick lips as he rounded back to his front, the rolling sheets encasing his bulge likely the first thing to come back into view. He came to a stop a few feet from his knees, arching his back slightly to ease the stress of his abdomen.
‘What say you?’
The man attempted to smear the blood out of his right eye with his bare shoulder before meeting the lord’s gaze. There was a deep, utter loath in them, striking beside the shame of defeat.
‘Kill me or let me go,’ he said clearly.
The lord raised a surprised and impressed brow. ‘Well, you know exactly what you want.’
His stare did not falter.
‘But what is it that I want? Surely, this is much more important.’
‘What do you want?’
Marthule paused. What exactly did he want?
‘Tell me, then, how many Qimak are left of the ones that massacred my men?’
‘Which are they?’
‘The very men that you were running with, Prince. My officers are not blind. I have heard a large force descended on my soldiers when they attacked your fleeing platoon in the south.’
‘I know of no such force.’
‘Like a cat doesn’t know of it’s own paws,’ Marthule hissed, but the insolence was welcome. With a crack, he slacked the weapon between his hands and let it uncoil at his boot.
The man gave a curt nod, fully aware of his doing, and what it meant. But he would not bow. He kept his eyes trained on the Hemshegh.
With the practised arc of his arm, the lord drew back and snapped his wrist with a speed that might surprise someone who had never witnessed it, despite his size. A harsh red streak sliced through the torque of the man’s chest like butter, the response so fast that it took him an instant to realize and shriek. The corner of the lord’s lip quivered with delight.
‘Tell me again. How many men remain?’ He asked with an almost pleasant patience as he repositioned for a second strike.
The man let his eyes fall shut, and said nothing.
Again, Marthule flicked the whip, letting it lick at the first wound and draw a howl from the prince’s determined visage. The both of them bled together and seeped down his glistening abdomen.
A heat began to rise in his loins, and the lord recalled the whip in preparation for a third taste. Something came to him that he couldn’t help but let slip.
‘We have found those who fled,’ he said slowly, savouring the news.
The hair draped over his scalp and past his chin swayed somewhat.
‘Your women. And children. Hiding so quietly in the mountains,’ he let his voice smooth into a whisper. ‘Imagine, their remains would make good food for the cannibals.’
The Prince snapped his head back so quickly that Marthule felt the spit of water droplets on his cheek.
‘They have nothing to do with this.’
The boldness of his eyes was enough to stay the lord’s hand for a moment. He simply grinned.
‘They have everything to do with this. You know, I’m acquaintances with a savage that would pay handsomely to see those lovely boys ground into dust for his seasoning.’
‘This doesn’t surprise me.’ he said firmly.
Marthule had moved to the side of the tent, and he brought back a low, heavy wooden chair. He settled in it and leaned forward aggressively, grabbing the man’s chin between his thick, clawed fingers.
‘What will surprise you,’ he sneered, ‘is how much it will hurt when you discover that your people have been slaughtered at the hands of my soldiers. Burned, cut open, and bled, before the savages are left to have their way with them.’
The pain of the thought betrayed the Prince as it passed over him. Marthule warmed at the failing expression.
‘I imagine you won’t be so strong spirited, then,’ he said coyly, sitting back.
‘I will not forsake any of my people.’ he said after a pause.
‘But that’s impossible, isn’t it? We’ve checked. Your people aren’t capable of hiding in midair, so there is no defence waiting defiantly to swoop in and rescue the weeping women and their suckling pups. If you don’t give me a number, I will give you one. One for every head split, if you prefer.’
He dropped his head, and was silent for a long time. No doubt pondering at some point which decision would do the best to preserve his soul. His pain was like a boiling energy, washed around the tent by the occasional rush of nightly winds. The Lord itched, the heavy layers of armour seemingly less capable of breathing as the moments passed. The enormous chiseled belt encircling his girth rose and fell like a slow, ominous timekeeper.
‘You know that I’m not known for my patience,’ he said finally.
‘There were six hundred,’ he sighed. ‘Many were killed by your wretches. Maybe one hundred, one hundred and fifty survived.’
Marthule looked him over carefully for sign of sincerity. He could not lie, not the Prince Genehash, who kissed the foreheads of newborn babies and called off the brutality of soldiers on women in the streets of his cities. It was not within him. He wanted to be a thing of war, to protect his people at all cost, but the strain was too great on a man with such ideals.
The Lord rose and bowed his head to consider the prisoner once more before pushing aside the flap of the tent. It was still howling outside, and in all likelihood, the handful of men standing at the threshold had not heard anything.
‘Take him to my tent,’ he commanded one of the guards, who obliged, and then he turned to Kluram, who spun at the rumble of his footsteps. ‘There are one hundred of them. Maybe 150. Have your men assemble. They will be struck down, tonight.’
‘My Lord,’ he bowed. ‘What about those hiding in the mountains?’
‘Continue to watch them,’ he turned to begin the trek back to his tent. ‘We can still use them.’
When he returned to the large tent, ‘number one’, he found two guards forcing Prince Genehash to his knees again. They were quick to leave, and one fastened the tent flap on his way out.
The Prince looked back to Marthule immediately.
‘You will not harm the women and children,’ he reiterated.
‘That depends on how cooperative you are.’ He moved to the table where his poor roast had grown cold and picked up the large knife he’d used. ‘Stand up,’ he gestured with it.
The man hesitantly pushed to his feet, watching him warily.
‘Turn around.’
He did, revealing his bound hands. Marthule took them in his fingers and sawed at the twine wrapped around red, raw wrists. With the final snap of the binds, the Prince turned to him and blinked.
‘What is this?’
Lord Marthule nodded to the makeshift bed behind him. It was held aloft by layers of thick fur atop a heavy wooden base, a piece that would have bent many backs to move around the field, but not as many as his preferred one back home. Then he glanced over the Prince’s naked chest.
‘You must be cold,’ he insisted.